Story 752: The Crimson Hold

The Rotting Cathedral pulsed with malignant energy. The air itself had grown sentient, thick with whispers and phantom caresses, drawn from the countless voices trapped in Selene’s ever-growing web of undeath. The Pale Widow stood at the altar, her new Dark Arms twisting like living shadows, their hunger barely restrained.

Her congregation of Laughing Dead stood below, their bodies twitching in euphoric decay, their laughter now a soft, unsettling drone. Yet tonight, there was something new.

A trespasser.

A lone figure stood at the entrance of the cathedral, draped in tattered robes, his face hidden beneath a plague mask adorned with rusted nails. The stench of medicinal herbs clashed against the suffocating aroma of rot that filled the hall.

Selene tilted her head, a grin spreading across her bloodstained lips. A physician? No… A fool.