Story 732: The Rot

The Rotting Cathedral stirred.

A chorus of whispers slithered through the desecrated halls, voices of the half-dead murmuring in agony, devotion, and madness. Their prayers were not for salvation—Selene Nocturna had made sure of that.

They prayed only to her.

Lucien, the once-proud inquisitor, now the first of her Plague Apostles, lay sprawled before the throne, his body still twitching, his mouth stretching in an involuntary grin. The sickness within him had reshaped his bones, stiffened his flesh, but refused him the mercy of death.

Selene watched him with detached amusement, running a blackened claw along his trembling cheek.

"Still conscious? Impressive."

His eyes—milky and rotting—rolled to meet hers, pleading.

Selene leaned in, close enough for him to see the hungry glimmer in her golden irises.

"You were a man of faith once, Lucien." Her voice was velvet-draped poison. "Shall we see if your god still listens?"