Chapter 39: Bishop Lark
Talren walks ahead, leading us through the winding halls of the garrison, his posture stiff with the weight of whatever responsibility he thinks he has right now. Cecilia moves beside me, her presence steady, but my mind drifts back to the last time I was here for a meeting.
I almost laugh.
Back then, I hadn't walked through these halls—I'd been dragged. Shackled, bruised, treated like a piece of garbage they had scraped off the street. I still remember the rough hands shoving me forward, the occasional strike across my back or the side of my head from those fucking pricks. A slow, simmering rage coils in my gut. I'd love to return the favor to those two especially.
The inquisitors we pass—some hooded, others with their faces bared—stop and stare. Unlike before, when I was ignored like a stray dog that had wandered too close, now they bow their heads as I walk past; it's all so ridiculous. I roll my eyes at their antics, disgust curling in my chest. They don't even know who I really am or what I'm really like, and yet they practically worship me just because of the power I bear.
We pass a few imperial guards in the hallways, clad in their armor, as well as officers in crisp dress uniforms. They bow their heads in deference to my title, but it's not done out of reverence like the inquisitors.Their eyes meet mine with curiosity, respect, and beneath it all, a tinge of fear. Not the fanatical devotion of the inquisitors, but the wary recognition of a predator in their midst. An Elite. A being above them in both authority and raw strength. Eventually, we stop in front of a heavy wooden door, the Imperial sigil engraved deep into its surface. I roll my eyes again. Really, what is the point of carving that nasty creature into every possible surface they can? Snakes are creepy, disgusting things.
Talren turns, his expression composed. "Bishop Lark is waiting inside."
I sigh, already dreading whatever sanctimonious bullshit I'm about to endure.
Talren gives a quick knock on the door before pushing it open, revealing a spacious office—not as grand as Count Ashland's but still larger than Cain's.
The room was well lit, with a heavy wooden desk at the far end of the room stacked with neatly arranged documents. A large bookshelf lines one wall, filled with thick books and scrolls.
Cecilia and I move to step inside, but Talren suddenly stops her with a hesitant look.
"Sister... you were not invited," he says, his voice careful but firm.