bishop’s opening.

FIFTEEN HOURS BEFORE THE DEATH OF DAMIAN ROSWALD

Damian woke to gentle snoring and a soft body squished against his side.

Blearily, he wiped his eyes with one hand, finding the other to be pinned beneath a mess of blonde hair. His mouth was parched and his head swam, but very slowly, his addled brain began piecing together the events of the night before.

Extricating his arm, he looked down at the sleeping girl, taking a few moments to recall her name. Tia. That's right, Tia had such a lovely ring to it. She grunted in her sleep and snuggled deeper into the covers, like a small animal burrowing into a hive.

Adorable.

Damian swung his legs out of bed and staggered upright, a sharp pain lancing through his skull. 

"I need some water…"

The bedroom floor exposed the revelries of the night—empty bottles of wine, a dirty maid's uniform, and used condoms sticking to the floor. 

The Crown Prince of Sidralis stumbled towards the door. He wasn't so terrible a man as to ask the sleeping maid to fetch him water—rather, he intended to find an awake maid to do the fetching. As he reached the closed doors, three sharp knocks rang against the timber, startling him.

His head ringing from the harsh noise, Damian opened the doors to find Gunther's face inches from his own.

"Good morning, Your Highness. Please tell me you have not forgotten your obligations this morning?"

Damian blinked. Gunther stared at him with evident disapproval, and that look sent the gears in Damian's mind spinning, trying to remember what day it was, what obligations—

"Fuck. The Cathedral."

"Yes, fuck indeed. Young master, you are aware it's past nine in the morning, correct?"

"Why didn't you wake me up sooner, dammit?!" 

Damian turned back into the bedroom in a hurry. He stumbled over the wine bottles, nearly tripping over the remains of Tia's dress, and dived behind the changing partition.

Gunther entered the room, his nose wrinkling at the smell of alcohol and bodily fluids. His eyes landed on Tia, who was slowly rousing, her hair a frenzied mess of blonde locks.

The butler sighed heartily.

"Really, young master, I thought we had an agreement about bedding the help? Surely you had your pick of ladies last night—must you really conquer the serving girls, too?"

"Listen, it's not like I intended for this to happen."

"Of course not, Your Highness. By the looks of things, you merely had an accident about three or four times in a row. A tragedy, to be sure."

"It was five times and—that's not the point!"

Damian thrust his legs through his pant holes, hopping awkwardly on the spot. He threw on his shirt and jacket, which Gunther buttoned up with practiced ease.

Damian turned to the small sink in the corner of the room. He splashed his face with cold water, gargled with some of it, then used his wet hands to fix his unruly hair into something vaguely presentable.

"...mian...where you go..."

Tia mumbled in her sleep, groping the empty side of the bed for her missing prince.

Damian met Gunther's eyes in the mirror, and the butler gave yet another sigh, looking like he'd aged a decade in the past few minutes.

"I'll speak to Mariabelle this afternoon. The usual, I assume?"

"Yes—no, do something special for this one."

Damian's eyes lingered on Tia for a moment longer. 

He'd rather liked Tia of course, but it was inappropriate for any of his trysts to remain employed within the Palace. Besides compounding the terrible rumors about the "playboy prince," it would lead to what Gunther called a hostile working environment.

Instead, Damian foisted the duties of breaking-up onto his butler, who would arrange some chocolates, flowers, and a significant-enough gift to secure silence for a period of time. It wasn't like Damian had reputation to lose, after all, but still—it was the thought that counted. 

Or something like that, anyway.

"Very good sir. Now if you rush, you might make the appointment on time yet."

Damian grumbled, his empty stomach protesting the damage it had sustained last night—but he dared not keep the Bishops of the Flame waiting. He'd rather walk blind around the streets of Tenebrae than suffer another scolding from those pious old geezers.

With one last glance at the maid still sleeping in his bed, Damian ducked out of his bedroom, and prepared to face the wrath of the Flame's strictest believers.

***

"You're seventeen minutes late."

Damian kneeled before the Bishop, his head lowered in apology.

On an ordinary day of worship, the Cathedral of the Flame was a lively place. When Damian came to pray—a rare occurrence, usually instigated by Gunther—the pews were packed, the enormous pipe organ would play, and a Bishop would stand at the lectern, preaching the word of the Angel.

Today, however, the Cathedral had closed its doors to common worshippers. 

In the silence of the cavernous interior, Damian could hear his blood pounding in his ears. To his side, there was the soft creak of metal as Lynn Brightwell kneeled to her superior. She was Damian's only protection today, and here at the Cathedral to report to her betters.

"My humblest apologies, Your Holiness. My tardiness reflects poorly upon my faith, and I shall reflect on my actions." 

Bishop Obediah grunted in response, evidently displeased.

"Pledge your oath to the Flame."

Damian lowered his head farther. 

The Angel had long deserted him, slighting him with powers that were no better than parlor tricks. No matter how many times he had offered his heart and soul to the Angel, he had yet to be fully recognized by Them.

Still, Damian began the oath, the most sacred speech for a child of the Flame.

"O' Wings of Flame, thy heavenly embrace grants warmth to the hearth of my soul, and thy burning sword shall drive away the enemies of my heart."

He wet his lips; beside him, Lynn murmured the same prayer a few words behind.

"I pledge my heart and soul to thee, and accept the Blessings thou gifts all men, us who crawled from the dark to seek thy light and heat. I pledge thus, for all my life, until I am gone, as ashes in the wind."

Damian remained kneeling until Lynn had finished her own oath. The Bishop stepped forward, and Damian felt a trickle of oil splash upon his brow.

"The Great Angel hears your oath, and shall grant you protection, until you are gone, as ashes in the wind."

"Ashes in the wind."

Damian and Lynn repeated the final part of the prayer, and only then did they stand to face the Bishop.

Obediah was a stern man approaching his seventies, and he wore the white robes of his station with pride. Like the Priests, he too wore the thick iron chains around his neck—but one chain was made of an iridescent red metal, denoting his higher status.

Obediah's voice rumbled like a far-off storm.

"Tell me, Your Highness, have you strengthened your bond with the Flame of late?"

"I practice my prayers and Blessings daily, Your Eminence. I am pleased with the Angel's favor."

Lynn gave Damian a questioning look, but with a fierce glare, he stopped her from speaking. Unfortunately, a new voice interrupted the conversation, bringing Damian's ill-fated attempt at deception to a swift and merciless end.

"Obediah, I fear our little prince dares sully the halls of the Flame with falsehood."

A new figure appeared from one of the cloisters, also garbed in white with the heavy red chains of a Bishop. Damian eyes widened in surprise, but his reaction was nothing compared to Lynn, who turned a deathly shade of white.

She opened her mouth and a low, shocked gasp escaped her lips.

"Brother?"

A sinking feeling in Damian's gut told him this would not be a pleasant family reunion.