The cathedral trembled with the weight of the battle. Steel met bone. Flesh met plague. The air reeked of necrotic rot, Kruger’s men succumbing to the suffocating disease before even reaching the altar.
Selene Nocturna stood poised, watching the carnage unfold. Her lips curled in amusement, the stitched gash across her cheek stretching with her smirk.
Kruger was relentless. His blade, engraved with ancient runes, cut through her risen followers with divine fury. Yet, no matter how many he felled, more staggered to their feet, crawling, clawing, whispering curses from mouths without tongues.
"You fight with such conviction," Selene mused, stepping down from her throne of skulls. Her fingers idly traced the vials hanging from her bodice—glass tubes filled with unholy concoctions. One in particular—a sickly green liquid that pulsed like a living heart—caught her attention.
Kruger locked eyes with her, his chest rising and falling heavily.