writing_shadows

"His Majesty will see you now, Bishop Benedict." The ghoul bows, a little deeper even than normal. The priest sweeps past him without so much as a sideways glance. The head of his cane is a richer, mellower colour than ivory; its tip is shod with heavy lead.

In the study, the Prince sits, working, the light of a green-shaded lamp illuminating the papers on his desk.

"Good evening, Your Grace. I imagine you've come to reprimand me for my treatment of the Edmonson Carthians."

"You may call me Nicholas when we are in private, my childe. And no. I have not come to reprimand you. You did an excellent job. Attacks on Invictus have already begun in retaliation."

"The Sheriff can handle them."

"I do not believe that he can, my childe. The forces are too evenly matched. The only thing that could turn the tide would be your personal intervention."

"If necessary."

"Yes. Yes, that is what I am here to prevent." Shadow swirls and coils around the bishop. The Prince looks up.

"Nicholas?"

He laughs as he strikes, a deep, hollow laugh full of hate and emptiness, and he laughs even more as the tip of the Dying Hand bursts through the Prince's back. He pushes him back on his chair, gazing into his empty eyes, then nods gravely to himself before he drinks.

The bishop takes his phone from his pocket as he strides out.

"Is it done, Namtar?"