The night hung thick with the scent of rot and fresh blood. In the heart of The Rotting Cathedral, Selene Nocturna stood before a banquet of the damned. The long, decayed table stretched before her, lined with silver plates filled not with food, but with remnants of souls—phantoms struggling to escape, wisps of life swirling in tortured silence.
Her twisted grin widened.
"They feast, but they do not savor."
She turned her head, looking at her newest creation—the girl who had taken her first taste of life in the last hunt. The girl’s lips were still stained with crimson, her pupils dilated from the ecstasy of the kill.
"Tell me, my child," Selene mused, running her blackened nails over the rim of a goblet filled with thick, dark ichor. "Did you enjoy it?"
The girl trembled. Her hunger was growing unbearable. She had thought a single taste would be enough, but the gnawing void inside her only widened with each passing second.
"Yes, Mistress," she whispered.