Changes in unknown places
Memories of scars I never once doubted our lord or how far he was willing to go for those he chose to love and protect, yet I fear there are scars he hid that none know, for what could wound a god and live? But the scars were still there, and I still bore witness to the events that gave them.
—Personal diary of the seer Nora, reflecting what she has seen after a millennium
Bobby went over his papers again, still not liking the reports. He’d agreed to help Serra, but this was pushing his luck.
The house was one thing, but they wanted more housing on top of that? Madness. It had been hard enough getting the men he did to agree to stand down. Lucky for him, a few liked bedding the women more than arguing—even if it was with whores, they still got laid, so it pushed them to his side. At least they’d been assigned to the slums; their division got less respect. Technically, they were equal to the knights, but the knights used their squires to guard mid and upper areas while Bobby’s men got the dregs. Very few earned the right to be better.
"Sorry I put you through this," a gentle voice spoke from his side.
Serra. The reason he was even trying to do these reports instead of burning them and forgetting the whole mess.
"It’s fine," Bobby replied curtly. "I’ve had worse piled on me. What’s a little more?"
She flinched at that, and he regretted his tone immediately.
"Sorry. It’s just—you’re asking a lot of me. Trying to change my guards, challenge not just the church of light but also the knights who have more power than me, change how we’ve lived for years—as if it could happen overnight or was even easy."
He wanted to assure her he was on her side, but even his apology sounded more like a complaint. He was failing her again.
"Vespera is handling the street, and in time we’re handling the guard and others," Serra said quietly.
What? He was the guard captain—how were they handling the guard and others? He caught the conflict on her face as she looked away, clutching her chest. She was always a tiny thing, not just from lack of food but height—barely to his chest, and he wasn’t that tall either. Many challenged his position because of that lack of respect, as if height determined worth.
Yet she looked at him once more, a sad smile blooming on her face. He’d loved her even at her worst, when rot scarred her face. Now the skin was smooth, if still a little gaunt, but much healthier. Her hair was cleaner too, a deeper red—he’d thought it was from getting washed, but she claimed a blessing had changed it. Even her eyes had a richness they’d lacked in the past when he’d tried to give her hope and all she’d wanted was bread.
He’d never regretted lying with her, even when the men used to laugh, saying he had to lay with rot to get any. No, he’d seen a woman pushed to the edge, sharing what she could just to be fed. He hadn’t had the power or money to give her a better life. Even now, what little she asked pushed the limits of what he could do.
If he tried too hard, his men would rebel, and all he’d get was a noose around his neck while she’d end up in someone else’s bed.
"You can join us, you know," she said, breaking his dark thoughts.
"Heh, no. I do believe I see the changes, but..." He couldn’t voice the rest—it felt like taking a stand, a betrayal he couldn’t take back, so he hesitated and chose his words more carefully. "I need time. As it is now, I’d be dead, and you’d be back where you started."
"Please, I’m not that helpless," she said with a wry smile.
"You’re right, sorry. Just... give me some time."
She came closer, holding him. A sharp knock at the door startled them both—she wasn’t forbidden from being here, but appearances still needed to be maintained. She was supposed to be here for random beatings, seeking help, not planning to change the slums from the bottom up.
"Enter," he called after Serra had moved to sit back in her chair, managing to look appropriately distressed. It wasn’t hard to fake—she was distressed, just for different reasons.
The guard who entered was one Bobby trusted, someone who wouldn’t talk, but fewer eyes and ears were always better when surrounded by rats. The man nodded to them both, concern clear on his face.
"Um, the bishop’s here and not happy. He tried to just barge past, but I told him you needed a moment to prepare—said you were handling sensitive paperwork."
Bobby saw Serra’s face go pale. The bishop loved to beat the "unworthy" for just existing and would have little pity for finding her here. He might even use it as a false pretense to escalate things, and Bobby would be forced to intervene.
"The closet," he said quietly, gesturing to the small storage space where he kept confiscated contraband. "Hide in there while I deal with him."
Serra had barely gotten the door closed when heavy footsteps echoed in the hall. The bishop didn’t wait for an escort—he stormed into the office, making the guard scramble out of the way. Bobby gestured for the man to leave; no point in forcing him to choose sides.
The bishop’s eyes swept the room before settling on Bobby with obvious disdain. Even here, in Bobby’s own office, the man expected complete deference.
"Don’t give me that look," the bishop snapped, reading Bobby’s expression. "You serve the light, not the other way around. I am with the light, so you serve me."
Bobby gestured to a chair. "Bishop. What brings you—"
"I’ll stand." The bishop’s voice was ice-cold fury barely held in check. "Do you know what the whores are doing?"
Bobby felt his jaw tighten. "Living?" The word slipped out before he could stop it.
The bishop’s eyes narrowed to slits. "Don’t mock me, boy." Each word was spoken slowly, deliberately. "I can do so much worse than just lecture you about the light."
Bobby knew the bishop could follow through on that threat. The man had connections, influence with the knights, backing from the church hierarchy. Bobby was just a guard captain in the slums, barely a step above the people he was supposed to keep in line.
He should apologize. Should grovel and promise to crack down on the women. Should—
You stand against the light and defend those that I choose to help. Fight. Do not fear his words—he has no god that cares, but you do.
The voice in his mind made him break out in a cold sweat. It was male, deep, and carried a warmth that the Light’s supposed messages never had. Bobby had never heard the voice of a god before—there was supposed to be only the Light Goddess, and she spoke only through her bishops and priests.
But Serra had hinted at what had given her salvation. She’d tried to tell him about another path, another god who cared about people like them. Bobby hadn’t really believed—not until now.
The bishop smiled, mistaking Bobby’s shock for fear. "Good, you know your place. It’s a start—rot like you can still learn."
But something had changed. A god willing to speak directly to him, to offer support instead of threats? That was more than the Light had ever given any of them. The Light demanded obedience through fear, but this voice had asked him to fight.
Bobby straightened, meeting the bishop’s gaze directly. The smugness on the man’s face began to fade as he read the shift in Bobby’s demeanor.
"I’ve made my choice, bishop," Bobby said, his voice steadier than he felt. "The girls and people in the slums are safe with us."
The bishop’s expression went from surprise to calculating coldness. "Excuse me?"
"If they do something to warrant intervention beyond your personal desires, we’ll handle it as our job requires. Maybe you should take it up with the knights instead—we’re beneath your notice unless it’s convenient for you."
Bobby felt panic rising in his chest, sweat forming on his back, but he’d cast his lot. A god willing to speak in his head, to offer support, was more likely to help than a Light that only threatened punishment for disobedience. He now had to live long enough to see how this would play out. He chose to trust, but watching the bishop’s cold calculation, he knew it would not end in words no matter how many the bishop spoke today.
The bishop studied him with those cold, calculating eyes before his mouth curved in a smile that held no warmth.
"I came to you with mercy," the bishop said, his voice deadly calm, "asking for help dealing with whores and rot. But it seems you’d gladly drink the same taint I seek to stop."
The coldness in those words was a promise of retribution. Bobby watched as the bishop’s eyes swept over him once more, cataloging weaknesses, planning his next move.
"Relax, child," the bishop continued, that terrifying smile never wavering. "I came to you in good faith—I shall do nothing to you directly. The knights, though? I can’t speak for them. But know that you’re the one sending me to them."
He stood and walked to the door, pausing at the threshold. "We’ll see what they have to say about a guard captain who’s forgotten his place."
The door closed behind him with deliberate softness—more ominous than any slam.
Bobby slumped in his chair as Serra emerged from the closet, tears gently falling as she moved to hold him.
"You did well, my love," she whispered. "I could not force you to choose Abaddon. But you did, and now you’re protected."
Bobby patted her arm as she held him, but he couldn’t share her confidence. This felt like the calm before a storm. The knights were better trained, better equipped, and backed by the king. They were the real threat, not Bobby and his ragtag guards who were barely a step above the people they policed.
There would be a reckoning. He just hoped they’d be ready for it.32Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡn72eeKBi2M
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