Story 776: The Rotting Hymn

The throne of Vareth no longer bore the weight of a king. Selene Nocturna sat in its place, her presence a cancerous dominion that spread through the once-proud halls like an incurable plague. The air was thick with the scent of rot and the echoes of laughter that still clung to the stones—phantom remnants of the nobles she had reduced to grotesque, grinning husks.

The torches flickered green, burning with necrotic fire as her alchemical concoctions seeped into the very foundation of the keep. The servants who had fled now stood frozen in the corridors, their skin marbled with disease, veins blackened, their lips stretched into lifeless grins. Puppets of The Laughing Death, their laughter long since stolen, leaving only silent, empty husks.

Selene traced her fingers along the golden edges of the armrest, watching the metal corrode into filth at her touch.