The village of Black Hollow stood defiant, its people clinging to the last remnants of hope. They had heard the whispers—the Pale Widow stirred, her revenants marching through the woods, a tide of death set to drown them all. Yet, still, they fought.
Torches lined the village barricade, a crude wall of sharpened stakes meant to hold back the horrors beyond. Men and women stood ready, gripping rusted swords and dented shields. Priests muttered prayers to absent gods. Their breath curled in the cold night air.
A thick, unnatural fog slithered through the trees, curling around the barricade like ghostly fingers. The torches sputtered, their flames snuffed out as if swallowed by unseen mouths. The air grew thick with the scent of rot and decay.
A voice, silken and cruel, drifted through the mist.
"Brave little insects... do you truly think your wooden spears will keep the night at bay?"
A figure emerged—a woman draped in shadows, her hooded form gliding effortlessly through the mist. Her porcelain skin seemed almost luminescent against the darkness, her lips blackened by venom and old blood. Selene Nocturna had arrived.
The villagers trembled. Some ran. Others fell to their knees, whispering desperate prayers.
A lone hunter, his face weathered with age, raised his crossbow. "You'll not take us without a fight, witch!"
Selene tilted her head. A slow smile spread across her lips.
Before he could fire, shadows burst from the ground beneath him, tendrils wrapping around his limbs, dragging him down. He screamed as the darkness slithered into his mouth, muffling his cries.
The first to die. But not the last.
From the mist, her revenants emerged—twisted knights clad in rusted armor, their hollow eyes glowing with necrotic fire. They moved without hesitation, cutting down the defenders with ruthless precision.
A woman tried to flee into a house, only for the walls to blacken, mold spreading like veins of corruption. Hands—rotten, clawed, desperate—burst from the wood, dragging her into the abyss.
Selene stepped forward, her boots pressing into blood-soaked earth.
"This is no war," she whispered, watching as the village fell to ruin. "This is a feast."
She lifted a single, delicate hand. The bodies of the fallen shuddered. Twitched. Then, with a sickening crack, they rose.
The dead did not rest tonight.
And neither would the living.