The Rotting Cathedral groaned as its decayed foundations trembled. From the cracks in its walls, shadows bled like liquid night, oozing toward the intruders.
Selene Nocturna, standing amid the ruin, wiped the blood from her lips—not her own, but a gift from something far older than death. She exhaled slowly, her breath curling like dark mist.
"You've come far, Lysander," she purred, mocking admiration laced in every syllable. "But you were always foolish."
Lysander steadied himself, silver energy crackling at his fingertips. His accomplice, the nameless alchemist, chanted furiously, forcing their magic to hold back the corruption slithering toward them. The walls shifted, breathing, as if the Cathedral itself had been roused from a slumber.
It was no longer just a place—it was alive.
The doors slammed shut. The torches overhead flared with green fire, illuminating the grotesque murals lining the cathedral's ceiling—depictions of the dead rising, plague-born monstrosities feasting, and a hooded queen standing atop a pile of writhing corpses.
Selene grinned, reveling in their unease.
Then, the bodies came.
From the pews, from beneath the cracked stone, from the walls themselves—limbs, torn and stitched, crawled forth like insects drawn to light. Faces partially melted by alchemy turned toward Lysander and the alchemist, whispering in broken voices.
"She does not forgive."
Lysander didn't hesitate. He raised his blade, its silver edge pulsing with holy light.
He lunged for Selene.
Her form dissolved into a flurry of black tendrils, slipping past him like a breath of cold wind. Reappearing behind the alchemist, she dragged a single claw across their shoulder—a cut no deeper than a whisper.
Yet the infection spread instantly.
The alchemist screamed, their veins turning black, their flesh already rotting beneath their own skin.
"No antidote," Selene murmured against their ear. "No salvation."
Lysander roared in fury, swinging his blade, but she simply laughed and melted into the shadows once more.
The Cathedral would finish them.
The walls began to move, shifting like the ribs of a great beast. The torches overhead flickered erratically as the murals bled, their painted horrors dripping onto the stone below.
A massive, skeletal hand erupted from the altar, its claws curved and stained with centuries of sacrifice. The Cathedral's true guardian had awakened.
Selene stepped forward, her arms outstretched.
"Welcome home, Lysander."
He barely had time to react before the rotting hand seized him, dragging him toward the depths of the Cathedral's hunger.
Selene tilted her head, watching with amused satisfaction.
The Rotting Cathedral had claimed another soul.