A thick, unnatural fog rolled through the shattered halls of the Rotting Cathedral, swallowing the echoes of past screams.
Lysander was gone—dragged beneath the Cathedral's cursed depths. The alchemist lay dying, their veins blackened, their breath little more than a rasping rattle.
And in the midst of it all, Selene Nocturna emerged from the mist, her form barely visible through the swirling death vapor.
She moved without sound, her long, tattered robes trailing across the floor like creeping decay. In her gloved hand, she held a curved sickle, its edge gleaming dully beneath the flickering green flames overhead.
The Rotting Cathedral had begun its feast, but she was not yet finished.
"I know you're still alive," she whispered, her voice carrying through the fog like a ghost's lament. "Don't disappoint me now."
From somewhere beyond the mist, a shuddering breath betrayed the alchemist's location.
Selene's blackened lips curled into a smile.
With a single motion, she sliced through the air, the sickle carving a path through the fog. As the mist parted, she saw them—crawling, trembling, clinging to what little life they had left.
"Ah, but you're already slipping away, aren't you?" She crouched beside them, her voice a mockery of comfort.
The alchemist's fingers twitched, attempting to summon some last flicker of resistance—but their strength had long since faded.
Selene reached out, brushing her gloved fingers across their damp cheek. The air around her hand curdled, the very fabric of reality withering at her touch.
"You should feel honored," she murmured, her sickle pressing gently beneath their chin. "Few get to see the Fog of Unmaking up close."
Their glassy eyes widened in horror as the mist around them began to shift.
It moved unnaturally.
And then—it remembered them.
The fog swirled, manifesting cruel, half-formed faces—some familiar, some nightmarish distortions. They whispered in countless voices, each one clawing into the alchemist's fading mind.
"Your name will be forgotten."
The alchemist let out a choked sob.
Selene tilted her head, watching with eerie fascination.
Then, without another word, she dragged the sickle across their throat.
A sharp, wet gasp—then silence.
As their lifeblood spilled onto the cold stone, the fog devoured it greedily, siphoning their very essence into its shifting form.
Selene rose to her feet, breathing in deeply as the final vestiges of their soul were consumed.
The fog coiled around her shoulders, draping over her like a shroud of lost souls.
And as she turned toward the Cathedral's open doors, she smiled.