Story 759: The Fog of Unmaking

A thick, unnatural fog rolled through the shattered halls of the Rotting Cathedral, swallowing the echoes of past screams.

Lysander was gone—dragged beneath the Cathedral’s cursed depths. The alchemist lay dying, their veins blackened, their breath little more than a rasping rattle.

And in the midst of it all, Selene Nocturna emerged from the mist, her form barely visible through the swirling death vapor.

She moved without sound, her long, tattered robes trailing across the floor like creeping decay. In her gloved hand, she held a curved sickle, its edge gleaming dully beneath the flickering green flames overhead.

The Rotting Cathedral had begun its feast, but she was not yet finished.

"I know you're still alive," she whispered, her voice carrying through the fog like a ghost’s lament. "Don’t disappoint me now."

From somewhere beyond the mist, a shuddering breath betrayed the alchemist’s location.

Selene’s blackened lips curled into a smile.