Leon Roswald leaned back in his chair and took a long drag on his cigarette.
The tip glowed brightly, a valiant effort against the near-constant presence of the Deep that clung to every corner of his private quarters. On the sofa nearby, a black cat—its fur so silky and dark it seemed almost like a shadow itself—watched their guest with keen yellow eyes.
Leon blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling.
"You're confident of victory?"
He directed his question to the man sitting opposite him.
Garbed in white, with a red-hued chain coiled around his neck, Bishop Obediah wrinkled his nose at the cigarette smoke. The holy man folded his hands in his lap, a number of gaudy rings glimmering on his fingers, each containing a fragmentary Cinder—nothing like the power of the Rosa Regalia, but a force to be reckoned with nonetheless.
