Story 766: Dirge of the Unwept

A shroud of sickly mist curled through the ruins of Ebongrave, once a proud city, now nothing more than a festering wound in the land. The dead did not rest here—they lingered, whispering in agony, bound by the will of a queen whose reign had only begun.

Selene Nocturna stood upon the remains of the city’s great altar, her cloak billowing like blackened wings. In her pale fingers, she held a vial of sanguine ichor, the last trace of a dying priesthood. She uncorked it, allowing the thick crimson to trickle onto the defiled stones. The ground beneath her trembled, drinking the sacrifice with insatiable hunger.

"Let mourning give rise to dominion," she intoned, her voice resonating with unnatural weight.

The silence that followed was absolute. Then—a keening wail erupted from the fissures of the land.

The wraiths had come.