Lingering Shadows

The stench of sulfur and something akin to burnt sugar clung to Bishop Dark like a second skin. He ran a hand over his stubbled jaw, the rough scrape a familiar comfort against the gnawing emptiness in his gut. The demon lord was dead, a smoldering pile of ash and regret where it had stood just hours before. Another victory for the Church of Radiant Light, another notch on his blood-stained belt. He spat on the charred remains, the sound a dry rasp in the sudden, heavy silence.

“Another one bites the dust,” he muttered, the words tasting like ash in his own mouth. He kicked a shard of obsidian that had once been the demon’s claw. It skittered across the desecrated ground, a tiny, insignificant sound in the vastness of his weariness. The town, or what was left of it, was quiet now. The terrified whimpers and screams had faded, replaced by the crackling of dying embers and the distant, mournful cry of a lone bird.

He’d done it. He’d followed orders, fulfilled his contract. The Church would be pleased. Abbott Kale would probably send him a curt nod and a bonus that would barely cover his bar tab. But the victory felt… hollow. Like an empty wine skin, all the good stuff long gone.