Trouble In Death’s Paradise

The iron maw of the cathedral doors creaked open, swallowing Harlow whole.

The air inside was frigid, laced with the cloying scent of incense and decay.

Sunlight, weak and diluted by stained glass, cast grotesque shadows on the cobbled floor.

Each footfall seemed to echo in the cavernous nave, amplifying the hollowness in Harlow's chest.

This was it.

Time was up.

He stalked up the central aisle, his cloak whispering against the worn flagstones. He was a crow in a nest of pigeons, his ragged attire and shadowed demeanor clashing with the ostentatious finery of the priests who flitted through the nave like painted puppets.

Harlow noticed that the aura in the cathedral was a bit tense, the altar boy rushing around and panicked whispers amongst priests.

'What is going on?' He wondered.

His destination was the Bishop's sanctum, a secluded chamber nestled behind the gilded altar.

There, he would face Bishop Ambrose, a man whose piety was only surpassed by his cruelty, a viper draped in the vestments of the faith and naturally Harlow admired and revered him.

The Bishop took him when no one would and gave him a purpose, Harlow believed that he owed everything to him.

The sanctum was a symphony of decadence. Velvet draped the walls, obscuring the rough-hewn stone. Oil lamps hung like bejeweled stars, cast an opulent glow on gilded furniture and stacks of leather-bound tomes. And behind an oaken desk, shrouded in a nimbus of pipe smoke, sat Ambrose.

Bishop of the Church of Death in Araya's branch.

Harlow approached, his boots thudding like drum beats in the stillness. He knelt, the cold stone biting through his thin trousers.

"Father," he rasped, "I'm here to report on my mission concerning the Resistance's stronghold."

Ambrose leaned back, his skeletal face a mask of feigned disinterest.

"And? Have you brought me the heads of these blasphemers, strung on a necklace of their entrails?"

Harlow swallowed, the taste of bile rising in his throat.

"No, Father. The warehouse was empty. I neutralized a handful of low-level operatives, easily dispatched and..."

A low chuckle rumbled from Ambrose's chest. Interrupting Harlow.

"Easily dispatched? By the Harlow, my own death hound? How disappointing."

Harlow flinched, the weight of Ambrose's scorn a physical blow.

"I captured one of the leaders, Father. I made his death painful and agonizing."

There was silence, Bishop Ambrose said nothing.

"He spilled his guts, and I have a lead on the boys and Lillian being housed at a university compound outside of…" Harlow continued to say, itching to just tell the Bishop what he found out, Harlow believed it was such a big deal.

"Ah, yes, another 'lead'," the Bishop sneered, waving a dismissive hand. "No doubt another dead end like the other what? Seven leads the Church has poured its resources into?"

Harlow clenched his fists, the urge to retort battling with the icy tendrils of fear. His mission, however fruitless, had exposed something far more important, this was the most concrete intel anyone had ever gotten on the resistance.

He knew because he read all the files, they knew next to nothing about all the resistance operations in their territory but he had changed that, he expected the Bishop to be more logical however, Ambrose, blinded by his arrogance, saw only failure.

Harlow couldn't quite place why the Bishop's demeanor felt off, he was never this outwardly impatient.

'Something is definitely up.' Harlow wondered, confirming his initial thought.

"Your inadequacy is becoming tiresome, Harlow," Ambrose continued, his voice dripping with honeyed venom.

"Perhaps a sojourn in the mines, to sharpen your instincts and remind you of your place, would be… beneficial."

Harlow slammed his fist on the desk, the oak groaning under the blow. "I served you faithfully! I bled for you! This isn't some fluke, we finally have them Father, send me with the pantheon and I will deliver their heads to you!"

The Bishop met his gaze, eyes like pits of burning sulfur.

"Your loyalty is unquestioned, child," he said, his voice a silken snare. "But so is your obedience. Remember, you are a tool, no more. A Raven sings at the master's command, not whispers dissent."

He rose, towering over Harlow like a skeletal monolith.

"Your new mission is to answer Gerry, he will brief you, I have indulged you long enough, I want their faces on wanted posters on every wall in the city, attach a bounty if you need to." He hissed.

Harlow couldn't speak, his opportunity was gone, and his prize would now be up for grabs by anyone.

"I want. them. found!"

With that, the Bishop swept out of the sanctum, leaving Harlow alone in the lavish cage.

The cathedral air, already frigid, seemed to tighten around him, suffocating him with the weight of expectation, of failure.

Harlow rose, his cloak shrouding his silent fury. The Bishop's words were venomous barbs, but they wouldn't break him. He wouldn't rest until he unraveled it, even if it meant his own damnation.

He stalked out of the cathedral, the iron doors snapping shut behind him. The world outside, bathed in the dying embers of sunset, seemed harsh and unforgiving.

As Harlow walked the streets the atmosphere in the Church carried on to the outside, a sense of tension and unease.

Harlow walked towards a newsstand grabbing a newspaper. On it, the news of the Governor's abduction had been printed and suddenly the urgency of the entire situation made sense to Harlow.

The Resistance was making their move and he aimed to be the one to crush them, his intel was now more valuable than ever.

He had to find Gerry.