{Chapter: 42: An Audience of Shadows and Silk}
Ponder for a while.
James stood in his private chamber, leaning by the window as dawn's golden rays pierced the curtains and spilled across the marble floor. A soft breeze teased the edges of his linen shirt, whispering like a lover in his ear.
He sighed, fingers tapping lightly against the windowsill, lost in thought.
Then came the expected knock.
"Your Highness," a voice called from beyond the door. "They've arrived. Shall I bring them in?"
James turned away from the light, eyes flickering with calculation. "No. Tell them to wait for me in the conference room. Let them sit a while and wonder why."
"As you command."
He listened to the servant's footsteps fading down the hallway, then moved toward the wardrobe, where a maid had already laid out a fresh outfit atop polished oak.
Unlike many of his fellow nobles, James had no need for the delicate touch of valets or the fussy hands of courtiers. Years of disciplined military life had left him impatient with such excess. He dressed himself quickly—efficiently—slipping into dark embroidered trousers, a crisp high-collared shirt, and a crimson jacket with silver clasps.
He adjusted the cuffs, then muttered, "Stylish enough to pass... I hope." His fashion sense, notoriously terrible, had become the subject of courtly gossip and occasional laughter. So now he let maids choose for him, though he refused to let anyone else touch his body.
He stood before a tall mirror, straightened his shirt, combed his fingers through his raven-black hair, and gave himself a faint smirk. Then he stepped out.
The hallway was hushed and regal, the silence broken only by his echoing footfalls on black-veined marble. As he passed by a young maid carrying linens, he paused.
"You. Bring food—no, something elegant—to the conference room. Light pastries, cheese, perhaps wine. Let's not make our guests think we're desperate."
She nodded quickly. "Yes, Your Highness."
Moments later, James stood at the ornate twin doors of the conference chamber. He took a breath. Composed himself. A prince must always enter with purpose, not anxiety.
Then he knocked.
The doors opened with an almost theatrical creak, revealing the guests within.
Six men sat on one side of the long obsidian table, each clad in immaculate robes of ivory and gold, their shoulders heavy with ecclesiastical authority. Sunlight from the tall windows caught the intricate thread of their garments, giving them an almost divine glow. Around them, maids moved silently, pouring steaming tea, offering trays of fresh fruit and bread, bowing low to avoid eye contact.
But it was the man at the center who drew James's eye.
Bishop Safi.
The eldest among them—and easily the most dangerous. A man cloaked not only in silk and symbols, but in legend and blood.
His face was lined with age, yet the firm jaw and penetrating steel-blue eyes betrayed the vitality of a warrior. He looked perhaps sixty, but James knew better. This man had seen nearly a full century. And much of that time had been spent hunting the enemies of the Church... and burning them.
Executioner. Inquisitor. Bishop of Purity. A man who once ordered the annihilation of an entire village for harboring a "demonic painting."
And now, that same man was smiling at him.
Or at least trying to.
"Your Highness," Bishop Safi greeted, standing with a creak of joints but a surprising elegance. "Still as striking as I remember. Time has only sharpened your features."
James raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a knowing smile. "Coming from you, Bishop, that's high praise indeed. Last I saw you was at the wine feast in Tort... Was it four years ago? Five? You haven't aged a day."
"A blessing of the gods, or perhaps just good wine," Safi replied, voice grave, but laced with warmth. "I feared you might've forgotten me."
"Hard to forget a man who left the Duchess of Talmer speechless—and I suspect not with sermons," James quipped, moving smoothly to his seat at the head of the table.
A few of the younger clerics stiffened at the flirtatious tone, but Safi only chuckled, the sound low and dangerous.
"You've not lost your tongue, Prince."
"Not yet," James said, tilting his head, "though I often think someone in your line of work would love to see it nailed to a church door."
That earned a genuine smile from the old bishop. "Only if it whispered heresy. And I doubt your sins are quite so... spiritual."
James reclined slightly in his chair, fingers lightly brushing the rim of his goblet. "You wound me, Bishop. I'm a firm believer in divinity—especially when it's dressed in white and visits my palace unannounced."
The flirtation shimmered just beneath the surface now, like a serpent coiled beneath velvet.
But despite the dance of charm and barbs, James remained cautious. Safi was no harmless relic. His presence here—so far from the central cathedrals of power—meant something significant.
And something dangerous.
"You didn't come all this way for compliments and tea," James said at last, the smile slowly fading from his lips. "What brings the Flame of Purity himself to Marton?"
The table quieted. Even the maids seemed to sense the shift in air, moving more delicately as if afraid to draw attention.
Safi's expression returned to stone. He set his goblet down with deliberate care.
"I come on business that cannot be delayed. Matters of heresy... and whispers of forbidden magic. Our enemies evolve. And some... wear masks of nobility and charm."
James felt a cold breeze sweep over his skin.
For a single moment, he wondered—had he been discovered? Had someone seen him that night with the demon, cloaked in fire and ecstasy beneath the blood rain?
But the bishop's eyes gave no indication. Only power. And curiosity.
James leaned forward slowly, his voice low and smooth. "Then I hope I can be of service, Bishop. After all, Marton has nothing to hide."
Safi smiled again—this time, thinner. "I hope so too... Prince."
Relatively speaking, the weight of affairs Bishop Safi handled on a daily basis was not far behind that of a king's. His authority extended across vast dioceses, with his word influencing thousands—sometimes millions—of lives. In the hierarchy of the Church, few stood beside him. Even fewer dared speak above him.
So the fact that such a man would suddenly leave his seat of power and come knocking on James's door… it wasn't just curious.
It was unsettling.
There was no way a man like Bishop Safi would abandon his post just to pay a visit, trade courtesies, and enjoy tea in a distant principality. No, something had brought him here. Something dangerous. Urgent. And most likely troublesome.
James leaned back in his seat slightly, suppressing the subtle groan that rose to his throat. He schooled his face into a composed mask, but his inner monologue was far less diplomatic.
'Tell us your woes, old man, so I can at least enjoy watching you squirm.'
There was an old saying that lingered in the Marton court: "Other people's troubles make for the best wine." James didn't know who said it first, but he understood the sentiment all too well.
After everything he'd endured in recent months—cleaning up the political mess of the Principality of Ar, navigating land disputes, handling rogue knights, and quieting rebellious border lords—he felt more like a glorified butler than a prince. If there was a way to enjoy someone else's misfortune for once, he'd take it.
Even now, despite Bishop Safi's foreboding presence and the heavy aura he carried with him like a second cloak, James couldn't help but entertain the faint, wicked hope that the problem had nothing to do with him. Maybe it was the neighboring duchy's fault. Maybe the bishop simply wanted advice. Or maybe—just maybe—the bishop was dying and wanted to confess his sins to someone more attractive than a priest.
He snorted inwardly at the last thought.
Unaware—or perhaps uncaring—that James was quietly fantasizing about watching someone else suffer, Bishop Safi continued sipping his tea with the meticulous patience of a man used to getting his way. His fingers were decorated with rings engraved with holy runes, each carrying blessings against dark forces. His robe shimmered faintly in the candlelight, threaded with sacred silver fibers—a defense not just against evil, but against those who might dare to question his authority.
James watched him carefully. There was no mistaking the subtle glint in the old man's eyes.
Then, in a moment of unexpected levity, Safi lifted his gaze, locking eyes with James, and offered him a surprisingly playful wink.
James blinked.
What the hell was that? Was the old wolf teasing him?
"Alright," James said, hiding his confusion behind a polite smile. He turned slightly toward the cluster of maids quietly tending to the refreshments at the corner of the room. "You may leave us now. Ensure no one interrupts."
The maids bowed and departed in silence, closing the thick wooden doors behind them with a soft click. Only the golden light of the chandeliers and the low crackle of the fireplace filled the space between the two men now.
The air grew heavier.
Bishop Safi waited until the footsteps faded completely before speaking.
"We have received disturbing reports," he said, his voice measured and deliberate. "According to credible sources from within our church's intelligence network… the Crooked Spirit Society has established a presence in the capital of the Duchy of Marton."
James's brow furrowed instantly.
"The Crooked Spirit Society?" he echoed. "That damned cult your church's been trying to erase for centuries?"
Safi nodded solemnly. "Indeed."
James's mood soured at once.
His fleeting hope of watching someone else suffer popped like a soap bubble in the sun. He was no longer the spectator—he had just been cast in the leading role of whatever disaster was unfolding.
His fingers tapped against the table subconsciously. He leaned forward, sharp eyes fixed on Safi. "You're sure of this?"