Blood pounded in the masked alchemist's ears. His breath came in ragged gasps as he tore through the ruined district, the jagged cobblestones slick with rot. Behind him, laughter followed—sharp, mocking, inescapable.
"You run well, little moth," Selene's voice cooed, her whisper twisting through the alleys like a viper. "But your wings will burn all the same."
He didn't dare look back.
His pulse screamed at him to move faster, but he could already feel her presence seeping into his bones, a weight far heavier than exhaustion. The sickness hadn't left him. It had only been momentarily pushed back by his elixirs.
Something moved—too fast, too close. A flicker of black and silver in the corner of his vision.
Selene was suddenly there. Mid-air, grinning, her cloak twisting like liquid shadow. Her arms spread wide, as though welcoming an embrace.
The alchemist twisted his body, barely avoiding her grasp. Her claws raked the air beside his throat, missing by mere inches—but the force of her attack tore through the stone wall behind him like paper.
He landed hard, rolling into the filth-covered street.
Selene landed effortlessly before him, her movements as fluid as a marionette with invisible strings. Her smile widened, revealing teeth too sharp, too long.
"Clever boy," she purred. "But I see it in your eyes. You know, don't you? Your body is already betraying you."
The alchemist's hands clenched into fists. He did know. The momentary surge of his alchemical fire had faded, and now the infection she had planted in him was creeping back.
Selene took a slow, deliberate step forward.
"This is the difference between us, dear moth. You fight decay. I become it."
Her Dark Arms twitched, the shadows around her distorting into grotesque, grasping hands.
The alchemist forced himself to move. He hurled a vial, the liquid inside flashing a violent silver as it struck the ground between them. A blinding explosion of light and sulfurous smoke erupted.
For the first time, Selene winced.
Selene let out a soft sigh, brushing soot from her sleeve. Then, she laughed—a low, delighted chuckle.
"Oh, little moth… you've only prolonged the inevitable."
She lifted her hand. The Rotting Cathedral's bells tolled, and from the shadows, the dead stirred.
The hunt was far from over.