The moon hung low over Blackmoor, casting a sickly pallor over the crumbling rooftops. The streets reeked of fear—the scent of prey.
Selene Nocturna stood atop the chapel ruins, golden eyes glowing through the night. Her lips were smeared with blood, her fingers tracing the delicate sigils carved into her skin. A ritual of hunger. A ritual of power.
Below, Blackmoor's doomed souls scurried like rats. Some barricaded their homes, whispering prayers to gods who would not answer. Others fled blindly, only to find shadows shifting in their path, twisting into grotesque shapes.
Selene inhaled deeply, savoring the fear. Delicious.
"You cannot hide forever," she whispered, her voice slithering through the air like a serpent. "Come now… let me taste your devotion."
From the darkness, the Choir of Rot answered her call. Their gaunt, withered bodies moved unnaturally, their voices weaving a chilling harmony.
"Pale Widow… our hands are yours… our throats are yours…"
Selene smirked. She stepped forward, the hem of her gown dragging through the ash-covered stones. The first of the city's would-be heroes had already fallen before her—Rothwyn, her newest thrall, stood silently at her side.
His once-noble features were now twisted, his lips forever curved into a mad grin.
She reached for him, running a gloved finger over his cheek. He did not flinch. Perfect.
"Let us begin, my pet."
With a slow, deliberate motion, Selene raised her hand—and the city screamed.
Shadows burst from her fingertips, coiling through the streets like serpents. Where they passed, bodies convulsed, veins darkened, flesh withered.
Some fell, never to rise again.
Their gasps turned into sickened laughter. Their lips split into wide, impossible grins.
Selene licked the blood from her lips, shuddering in pleasure. "Such eager acolytes."
A foolish knight charged from the alleyway, his sword raised high. His armor bore the crest of the Silver Order, the last remnants of Blackmoor's holy defenders.
"Witch!" he roared. "Your reign ends here!"
Selene laughed—a sharp, intoxicating sound.
Before he could strike, she moved. A blur of decay and silk.
Her gloved hand cupped his face, her golden eyes locking onto his. The moment their skin touched, his strength faltered. His breath hitched.
Selene purred. "Tell me, little knight… have you ever been kissed by death?"
She leaned in, her lips barely brushing his—just enough for the sickness to take root.
The knight staggered. His limbs trembled. His sword slipped from his grasp.
Selene watched, grinning.
"Good boy," she cooed.
And as he fell to his knees, laughing in agony, the city of Blackmoor fell with him.