Story 757: The Silver Betrayal

Selene Nocturna stood amidst the flickering decay of the Rotting Cathedral, her breath slow, measured. The silver fire at the entrance crackled, illuminating her half-decayed grin in a haunting glow.

The alchemist had returned. But what truly interested her was the second presence.

A figure stepped forward through the flames. Not another hunter. Not an assassin. No—this was one of her own.

Selene tilted her head, a dark amusement playing in her cold, dead eyes.

"So," she murmured, her voice as smooth as curdled silk. "Even my children have learned the art of betrayal."

The figure lowered their hood—Lysander, her former acolyte.

Once, he had been devoted, his hands stained with the same plague-ridden alchemy she had gifted him. A weaver of pestilence in her name. Yet now, he stood adorned in tattered silver robes, the mark of the enemy branded across his chest.

Selene let out a soft, humorless chuckle.