The Rotting Cathedral stood silent under a moonless sky, its once-grand spires now gnarled with necrotic growth. The air inside was thick with the stench of blood and decay, the only sound a faint, rhythmic chanting—a dirge of the damned.
Selene Nocturna sat upon her throne of bone and blackened iron, her fingers idly tracing the cracks in its armrests. Before her knelt Aldric Vayne, or what remained of him. His once-proud armor was tarnished, his flesh ashen and streaked with black veins, his eyes devoid of life's fire.
Yet he lived. Or something close to it.
Aldric obeyed without hesitation. His movements were too smooth, too unnatural, as if he were merely a puppet guided by unseen strings. The power Selene had woven into him pulsed beneath his skin, a constant reminder that his will was no longer his own.
Behind him, others stirred.
Dozens of figures emerged from the cathedral's shadows—warriors, mercenaries, priests—all bearing the mark of Selene's dark mercy. Their bodies bore wounds that should have slain them, yet they stood, bound by the Pale Widow's call.
Selene rose from her throne, her tattered cloak shifting around her like living mist.
"You were all once so eager to resist me." She walked between them, her fingertips brushing against cold, stiffened flesh. "So devoted to your pitiful gods, your broken kings. And yet… here you stand."
A cruel smile curled her lips.
"What does that say about your faith?"
A few among them flinched, as if some lingering fragment of their past selves recoiled at her words. But it was too late. They belonged to her now.
Aldric's lifeless voice cut through the silence.
"What is your will, my lady?"
Selene paused, exhaling a breath laced with the scent of old death. Her thoughts swirled like a storm—visions of conquest, of rot spreading across the land, of the living kneeling before her, not out of reverence, but fear.
And yet… she was not impatient.
"The world is not ready for us," she mused, her voice like silk woven with poison. "Not yet."
She turned to the towering stained-glass windows, depicting gods that had long since abandoned this place. With a flick of her wrist, the glass cracked, then shattered, sending jagged shards clattering to the floor.
Beyond, the kingdom of Vareth lay under a blanket of twilight. Unaware. Unprepared.
"But soon, it will be."
Her eyes gleamed with the promise of ruin.
"Prepare the Hollow Legion. We march at dawn."
A chorus of unholy voices rose in unison.
Not a cheer. Not a war cry.