Story 777: The Mocking Dirge

The moonlight barely reached the ashen peaks of the mountains, casting only a faint, sickly glow upon the ruined monastery. The black spires jutted into the sky, remnants of a faith long abandoned. Amidst the rubble stood Selene Nocturna, her posture almost casual, yet her expression carried the weight of something ancient—something twisted and amused.

She cocked her head, her bloodied lips curling into a grin as she pointed two fingers to her temple, her mockery unmistakable.

"You came here believing I would be afraid," she mused, her voice laced with venomous mirth. "How quaint."

Before her knelt the Severed Priest, his once-pristine robes reduced to tatters, the silver flames he had conjured now nothing but smoldering embers at his feet. His sigils, meant to purge corruption, had been twisted—repurposed by Selene’s own alchemical interference. The veins in his hands bulged, blackened and ruptured, as her new plague took root.