Gentle candlelight swayed in the dim surroundings of the church, its golden glow dancing across the vaulted ceilings. The night outside was impenetrably dark, and the icons of saints seemed to observe the young priest, as if listening to the quiet prayers whispered in his mind. His fingers moved deftly through the worn pages of the Bible, skimming passages he had studied countless times—verses he once spoke aloud to the faithful, spreading the Word of God they held dear. Many came to him, seeking absolution, drawn by the warmth of his voice and the kindness that seemed to radiate from his being. They sought him for guidance, for blessings, convinced that Father Alaric was the embodiment of angel, tending to the church with unparalleled devotion.

But he had them all in the palm of his hand, and he knew it. The adulation they lavished upon him only served to inflate his ego further, his pride as gaudy and resplendent as a peacock’s feathers. He had no use for their blessings, nor for the Word of God he was supposed to cherish. Why would he, when a far more potent force lurked in the shadows beside him—a creature of malevolent power, bound to him by an infernal contract until the day his soul would descend into Hell, where they would suffer together? The priesthood was a mere mask, a hollow guise to absolve his soul of the sin he had committed in summoning his diabolic companion.

A slow, wicked smirk played at the corner of his lips as he reached for the chalice that held the so-called 'blood of Christ.' The golden goblet reflected the dim light of the candles as he angled it to catch a glimpse of the infernal creature skulking nearby. Its presence was palpable, and just the sight of it filled him with a sense of satisfaction.

"My precious..." he murmured, without looking away from the Bible. The faint scent of sulfur drifted to him, and he breathed it in, savoring the acrid air. "You’re unusually calm today—not trying to possess me or disrupt the sanctity of the Mass. Has this priest finally grown on you?"