Ashes of the Elite-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.

Cecilia, to my absolute disgust, simply nods and murmurs, "Of course," already turning to leave.

My jaw tightens. No.

"She comes," I sneer, my tone annoyed and unforgiving.

Talren visibly quivers, torn between the conflicting orders. He hesitates, looking like he might try to argue, but before he can, a deep, authoritative voice booms from within the room.

"It's fine, Talren," the man says, his voice rich with confidence and age. "Thank you for bringing Lord Daath. You can go now, my good man."

Talren looks visibly relieved to be spared from choosing.

He bows hastily and all but flees, leaving me standing at the threshold, staring at the man who had spoken.

Bishop Lark.

He stands before us now, having seen the hesitation at the door and walked over from his desk. The man is tall. Then again, everyone is tall compared to me, sadly. He is around 6'2, an old man easily around 60-70 years old, his presence commanding despite the wrinkles that line his face. His long white hair is neatly combed back, and his deep brown eyes have a deep intelligence and patience in them that make it seem like he's even older than he looks.

His inquisitor robe drapes over him, but unlike the others, the fabric at the neckline is tinged with gold. A symbol, I assume, marking his rank as a Bishop.

Bishop Lark is not what I expected, to be honest. What stands before me is a man whose very presence commands the room. His posture is perfect, shoulders squared with the natural authority of someone who has never had to raise his voice to be obeyed.

Almost as impressive as Cain.

Cain drilled it into me well—always be the biggest bastard in the room. The only thing that people who are used to power respect is people who have even greater power.

So, I adapt. My expression settles into cold arrogance; my presence fills with the practiced air of an untouchable Elite.

I smirk and mockingly lower myself into a slight courtesy, just deep enough to be technically respectful, but my tone drips with carefully measured spite.

"Ah, a great honor," I say smoothly, lifting my gaze lazily, like I couldn't care less about his title. "I do so love being summoned so shortly after dawn after a long night. Such a privilege."

Bishop Lark smiles. Just barely.

His eyes sparkle like he's amused rather than insulted, and he inclines his head in turn.

"And I thank you, Lord Daath, for granting me a meeting on such short notice," he says smoothly, voice rich with patience. "You see, when I was woken in the dead of night and told an Elite had stormed into the garrison, mad as the gods, demanding to see an inquisitor—"

My lip twitches. Like I had a choice.

"—I was, of course, concerned," he continues, his tone light as if he was chatting with an old friend. "Then, when I was informed that you were the culprit, well... my concern turned to intrigue."

His words are pointed, fishing for a reaction.

I give him nothing.

He studies me for a moment longer before sighing, shaking his head slightly.

"My apologies for not meeting you sooner," he says. "I reside in the Church, and I rarely make the journey to the Castle unless it is for an official Council meeting, and the last time I was there, I was told in no uncertain terms that you were occupied. But now that you are here—" His gaze flickers to Cecilia, taking note of our proximity, before settling back on me with subtle amusement. "We can have our much overdo chat."

"Ah, so now you want to talk," I say, my voice dripping with mock amusement. "Funny how that works."

Bishop Lark's expression doesn't shift. If anything, he looks entertained.

"Indeed, Lord Daath. Timing is everything, is it not?" He gestures toward the desk, where a single chair sits opposite his own. "Please, have a seat."

I move toward the chair with measured ease, knowing my presence is heavier than it should be in this room. Cecilia makes to follow, but before she can, Lark sighs dramatically.

"Ah, my apologies, Miss Lakeborn. I was not expecting you to be part of this meeting." His voice is laced with amusement as he reaches for a small silver bell and gives it a sharp ring.

A few seconds later, a servant appears. Lark gestures casually. "Another chair, if you will and have someone fetch tea."

The servant bows and swiftly disappears through a side door returning maybe a minute later hauling a chair.

Then we all simply just wait. His presence is solid, unwavering—impressive, but I refuse to let it show. I let my eyes grow cold, my expression unreadable, disdain barely concealed as I look at him like I would a snake in the grass. Finally another servant enters, setting down a tray of steaming tea. The scent fills the room, but I don't reach for it.

Bishop Lark pours himself a cup of tea, his movements slow, deliberate. He offers the pot to us, glancing between Cecilia and me.

Cecilia nods, accepting the pot with a polite murmur of thanks, pouring herself a cup. I just scoff.

"I'm good," I say flatly.

Lark sighs, as if I'm some petulant child refusing a simple kindness, and takes a slow sip from his own cup. Setting it down, he finally meets my gaze, expression calm but unreadable.

"Now, Lord Daath, can we please drop the masks?" he says smoothly. "We are both equals here, after all there's no need for these games."

"Equals? How do you figure?" I tilt my head, my voice laced with amusement. "I don't have rank. Not until I'm pinned as an Elite after graduating the Academy."

Bishop Lark gives me a knowing look, his lips curling just slightly.

"True, officially, you have no rank as of right now," he concedes, folding his hands together. "But tell me—what is power but a word? You bear three marks on your skin. No one, not even the king or archbishop, would dare discredit that. Regardless of the Academy, regardless of official titles, it would be blasphemy."

I stare at him.

Then I chuckle, shaking my head in disgust. "Ahh, you sound like the rest of your Order," I say, voice edged with mockery. "Tell me, old man, are you also a crazy fanatic who thinks I'm the gods' will made flesh?"

Beside me, Cecilia shifts uncomfortably. I don't need to look at her to feel her staring—shocked, tense. This version of me isn't one she recognizes. My cold words hurt her, which in turn hurts me. Maybe I should have left her outside.

Bishop Lark, however, places his cup down firmly. His expression hardens, a flicker of anger tightening his features.

"Do not speak of the gods' so carelessly, Lord Daath," he says, his voice measured but heavy. "You heard their voices in your head when you awakened, did you not? Do you claim they are not real?"

It takes all my self-control to not roll my eyes.

The voices. The whispers that had shattered my mind carved my very soul into something new. I still didn't know what they were. Divine will? Some ancient force pretending to be? A trick of power beyond mortal comprehension? Who knows?

I exhale slowly, gathering my thoughts before speaking. My mind flashes back to the outskirts and the unreasonable violence I saw there daily; my mind flashes to my parents being hanged to a vile cheering crowd. I think of all the times Inquisitors beat and arrest people with prejudice. The holy war that King Malik wages to this day the thousands of soldiers dying in his conquest to have the entire world united under his banner. If those voices were our Gods then they do a shit job of overseeing the world.

"I don't know if they were really gods or not," I admit, my voice quiet. Then, leaning forward slightly, I say with bitterness:

"But if the gods are willing to prevent evil but not able, then they are not omnipotent beings.

If they are able but not willing, then they are malevolent beings.

If they are both able and willing, then why does evil exist?

And if they are neither able nor willing, then why do we call them gods?"

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