The Fallen Angel

The air in the tavern hung thick and greasy, a miasma of stale ale, sweat, and desperation. Bishop Dark, hunched over a scarred table, nursed a tankard that was already half-empty, contemplating the chipped wood grain with the intensity of a scholar dissecting ancient texts. His usual grimace was etched deeper than usual, a roadmap of sleepless nights and hard-won battles. The scent of his own unwashed linen, a familiar comfort, did little to soothe the gnawing unease in his gut. He’d been tracking a particularly nasty nest of rogue vampires that had decided a sleepy farming village was ripe for the picking. Now, the trail had gone cold, and the only thing that felt warm was the cheap whiskey burning its way down his throat.

A shadow fell over his table, and Bishop Dark didn't even flinch. He knew the hesitant tread, the almost apologetic stillness that preceded it. Sister Petra. Even in the dim, flickering light, her novice habit seemed to glow with an ethereal, out-of-place purity. She was a stark contrast to the grime and sin that clung to him like a second skin.

“Bishop Dark,” she whispered, her voice a soft chime against the tavern’s cacophony. Her eyes, wide and earnest, met his. There was a nervousness there, a flicker of something that both thrilled and unnerved him. It was the same look she’d had the first time they’d found themselves alone, the air crackling with forbidden electricity.