Selene Nocturna stood amidst the flickering decay of the Rotting Cathedral, her breath slow, measured. The silver fire at the entrance crackled, illuminating her half-decayed grin in a haunting glow.
The alchemist had returned. But what truly interested her was the second presence.
A figure stepped forward through the flames. Not another hunter. Not an assassin. No—this was one of her own.
Selene tilted her head, a dark amusement playing in her cold, dead eyes.
"So," she murmured, her voice as smooth as curdled silk. "Even my children have learned the art of betrayal."
The figure lowered their hood—Lysander, her former acolyte.
Once, he had been devoted, his hands stained with the same plague-ridden alchemy she had gifted him. A weaver of pestilence in her name. Yet now, he stood adorned in tattered silver robes, the mark of the enemy branded across his chest.
Selene let out a soft, humorless chuckle.
"Lysander, dear child," she mused. "Have you come to beg for mercy?"
He said nothing. Instead, he raised his hands.
The air split apart—the alchemist beside him began to chant, weaving threads of luminous energy into a spear of pure silverlight. It pulsed, banishing the shadows that clung to the cathedral walls.
Selene's smile vanished.
The hunter at her feet suddenly jerked, their bonds dissolving into smoke. A trap.
The silver spear ripped through the air.
Shadows writhed. Her form distorted, breaking apart like a mirage of rot and disease, phasing through the attack in a sickening blur. The cathedral itself trembled, reacting to her fury.
She reformed behind Lysander.
A single touch to his spine—and the plague would devour him whole.
But he was fast. Faster than she remembered. He spun, a dagger in his hand, aimed for her throat.
Selene caught his wrist, her grip like iron.
"You disappoint me," she whispered.
Lysander's gaze met hers—filled not with fear, but resolve. And that's when she felt it.
The silverfire didn't fade. It clung to the air, feeding off something unseen.
A spell woven in secret.
Selene's eyes narrowed.
A blast of radiant force erupted from Lysander's palm, sending her crashing into the cathedral's altar. The corrupted stone cracked beneath her.
For the first time in centuries, she tasted something she had nearly forgotten.
She rose, slow and deliberate, blood dripping from her lips. Not hers—but the remnants of what she had consumed.
Lysander and the alchemist didn't hesitate.
The cathedral roared as their combined magic struck.
But Selene only laughed. A deep, hollow sound.
"Very well," she whispered.
The walls shattered. The dead awoke.
And the Rotting Cathedral—began to fight back.