The Rotting Cathedral trembled. Not from the wind, nor the passing of time—but from the chorus of the damned. Selene Nocturna's children stirred beneath the stone, their restless whispers bleeding through the cracks.
She stood upon the altar, arms raised, bathed in the eerie glow of cursed candlelight. Her latest victory was fresh in her veins, the necrotic essence of Varek Hollowborne festering inside her like an exquisite infection.
The whisper was gentle, yet absolute—a lullaby for the deceased. And they obeyed.
A dozen figures rose from the cathedral's depths. Bodies twisted beyond recognition, eyes hollow, skin sagging with the weight of unlife. Once knights. Once priests. Now nothing but wretched echoes.
Selene stepped down from the altar, her movements deliberate, graceful, untouched by the decay around her. The cursed souls gazed at her, awaiting her decree.
"You are not whole," she said, running her fingers across a disfigured face. Its skin peeled away at her touch, revealing the blackened marrow beneath.
"But I can mend you."
A skeletal hand trembled. A throatless moan escaped another's ruined lips. They hungered for what she promised.
Selene's smile widened.
She drew a dagger from her belt, its edge jagged and rusted, stained with sins older than the cathedral itself. With one swift motion, she dragged it across her palm. Thick, blackened ichor oozed from the wound, dripping onto the stone floor like ink spilling from an ancient tome.
The reaction was immediate. The undead twitched, their jaws snapping, their spines arching as though puppeteered by unseen hands.
"Drink," she commanded.
They crawled, they lunged, they lapped at the cursed offering like starved beasts. Her tainted blood seeped into their bodies, binding them, reshaping them. Their withered flesh knitted together, not with healing, but with corruption. Their bones crackled as new sinew wrapped around them, pulsating with unholy vigor.
Selene watched with satisfaction as her abominations took form—knights of ruin, priests of pestilence, creatures of pure, undying hunger.
"Rise anew," she whispered. "My Unhallowed."
Their eyes snapped open, burning with unnatural light.
The ritual was complete.
The Rotting Cathedral had birthed its army.
And soon, the world would bleed.