The Hollow Basilica loomed over the jagged mountain pass, its bck spires piercing the storm-cloaked sky like obsidian knives. Built into the very bones of the mountain, the fortress was a monument of shadow and iron, its walls constructed of dark stone slick with age and alchemical reinforcement. Crimson nterns, their glow unnatural, flickered behind stained-gss windows, depicting centuries of sughter—witches burned, abominations purged, gods shattered.
A heavy iron gate, engraved with the split-sun sigil of the Bck Chapel, marked the entrance. The symbol gleamed faintly under the moonlight, a stark reminder of their holy war against the unnatural.
Sel approached, her boots crunching against the frost-den stone.
As she reached the gate, she raised her right hand, fingers forming a deliberate, practiced gesture, her gloved fingertips curling inward in the shape of the Bck Chapel’s glyph. Her voice was calm, steady, yet carried the weight of centuries-old doctrine.
“In shadows we burn, in silence we purge. Let no god rise. Let no heresy breathe.”
The gatekeepers, cd in dark hooded armor, their masked faces featureless, responded in unison.
“We are the fme that walks. Enter, sister.”
The gate groaned as it unlocked from within, the mechanisms ancient yet unnervingly smooth.
Sel stepped inside.
The Hollow Basilica – Within the Bck Chapel
The interior was colder than the mountain air.
Massive, vaulted ceilings stretched high above, lined with intricate carvings of old hunts, their edges inid with bckened silver, depicting battles against horrors most would call myth. Towering pilrs, engraved with the names of fallen Bck Clerics, lined the hall, the torches beside them burning with a blue alchemical fire—a fme that never went out.
Hunters moved through the cathedral’s gothic expanse, their footsteps hushed, their presence sharp. The Bck Chapel’s finest, dressed in high-colred coats reinforced with eldritch-threaded sigils, lined the corridors.
Their attires bore the markings of experience—some coats were torn, bloodstained, repaired countless times, while others were pristine, signifying new recruits still untouched by true battle. Their tricorn hats, masks, and cowls hid their identities, for names did not matter—only the hunt did.
Sel walked past a gathering of veteran hunters, their weapons resting against the long wooden tables beside them. A few paused their conversation to gnce at her, murmuring low, unreadable words.
She ignored them.
“The witch in the outskirts of the city lsted four days before she broke,” one of the hunters muttered, adjusting the runed pting on his gloves. “Took three men with her before the end, though.”
Another, a taller hunter with a scar that cut from his brow to his jawline, exhaled through his tattered pgue mask. “That’s longer than the one in Oddmere district. The thing didn’t even have time to scream before Orlen put a bolt through its head.”
The first hunter scoffed. “You call that a hunt? That was mercy.”
A younger recruit, clearly new from the way his leather buckles still shone, hesitated before speaking. “What about the one in the frozen bogs? The Weeping Crone? They say she’s still out there.”
A chuckle. “If she is, then she won’t be for long.”
They turned back to their conversation, speaking of forbidden rituals, monstrous transformations, and hunts that never truly ended.
Sel kept walking.
The training hall was an open-air expanse at the edge of the cathedral, a battleground of stone and steel, illuminated by flickering bck-fme braziers.
Here, the recruits fought, bled, and learned.
Pairs of young hunters sparred with brutal efficiency, their silvered weapons cshing against enchanted gauntlets. Others trained in ranged combat, firing alchemic crossbows that detonated into bursts of ghostly blue fme.
And then there were those who trained in Soul-Alchemy.
A high-ranking Bck Cleric, his presence undeniable, stood before a group of struggling recruits, his arms folded behind his back. His coat, a deep midnight bck, was adorned with silver-threaded scripture, his maskless face lined with years of experience. His right hand bore an iron gauntlet, the fingers engraved with pulsing runes.
The recruits around him were breathing heavily, battered, bruised, barely able to stand.
One of them, gripping his side, struggled to his feet. “I don’t—I don’t get it. It takes too much. The body—”
The Bck Cleric’s foot shot forward, smming into the recruit’s chest, sending him sprawling into the dirt.
“The body is irrelevant.” His voice was calm, detached, yet unwavering in its authority.
He turned to the others, pacing before them. “Soul-Alchemy is not mere magic. It is not something given freely. It is the cost of your very existence. It is the fire that will burn you alive—”
He snapped his fingers.
The air around him twisted, and suddenly his entire left arm was abze with spectral energy, shifting between ice, fire, and crackling lightning.
“—or the weapon that will make you untouchable.”
The recruits flinched at the sheer pressure radiating from him.
Another recruit, still gasping for air, spoke through grit teeth. “But it—it consumes us. The more we use it—”
The Bck Cleric tilted his head slightly, then vanished.
No movement, no warning—he was just gone.
And then, in an instant, he was behind the recruit, his gauntleted hand gripping the back of his skull.
“Everything has a cost, boy.”
He released him, stepping away.
“If you cannot pay it, you are worthless to the hunt.”
The recruit remained on his knees, panting, eyes wide.
The others stayed silent.
Sel, watching from the shadows, did not stop.
Whispers followed her as she moved through the halls.
They always did.
“She stood in the Exarch’s presence.”
“Only those the Exarch cherishes are granted that right.”
“The rest of us are dust to him, but her—”
Sel ignored them.
Her own thoughts drowned them out.
She didn’t need their validation.
She would prove herself.
She was not like them.
She was better.
She would be accepted.
She would not be abandoned.
Not like before.
Not like she had been by her father, a man who had forsaken the Bck Chapel to become a pdog of the Inquisition.
She clenched her fists.
It didn’t matter.
He was nothing.
She was everything.
And she would prove it.
Her room was bare, yet purposeful—a simple bed of dark linens, a desk cluttered with old manuscripts, a rack of weapons standing against the stone wall.
A single candle flickered on her nightstand, casting shadows against the bck iron mask resting there.
Sel removed her coat, draping it over the chair.
Sel’s fingers worked at the buckles of her high-colred coat, undoing each csp with slow, practiced movements. The scent of cold iron and lingering alchemic smoke clung to the fabric—remnants of the long journey back to the Hollow Basilica. She draped the coat over the chair in her room, letting the heavy fabric settle against the dark wood.
Her gloves followed next, peeled away inch by inch, revealing calloused, battle-worn hands—the hands of a woman who had spent her life gripping bdes, firing rifles, and carving through witches. The silver-threaded stitching on her vest gleamed under the dim candlelight as she slid it off, revealing the lean, sculpted shape of her torso, a body hardened by years of relentless training.
A single mark adorned her back.
The insignia of the Bck Chapel, inked in deep bck, stretched between her shoulder bdes—the image of a bck cathedral beneath a sun split in two.
She stepped toward the bathing chamber, her bare feet silent against the cold stone floor.
The steampunk bathhouse within the Hollow Basilica was as intricate as the rest of the cathedral—a fusion of gothic opulence and alchemic engineering. Pipes of dark brass ran along the walls, their engravings pulsing faintly with amber light, carrying water heated by deep, geothermal furnaces. A rge iron valve stood beside the gss-paneled shower chamber, gears clicking softly as Sel turned it.
Steam hissed from the vents.
The pipes trembled for a brief moment before warm water cascaded from the showerhead, its flow controlled by an array of mechanical levers and alchemic runes etched along the gss. The walls, darkened with age, were lined with riveted copper and ste, the entire structure built to st centuries.
Sel stepped beneath the falling water, her breath hitching for just a moment as the heat soaked into her skin. She tilted her head back, letting the water wash away the blood, the sweat, the weight of the night.
Her fingers ran through her jet-bck hair, slicking it back as the droplets traced the sharp pnes of her cheekbones, her jaw, her colrbones. She exhaled, her hands trailing along her arms, across her abdomen, over the scars that told the story of a life shaped by war.
The warmth threatened to lull her into silence, into stillness.
But then—
A memory surfaced.
Years Ago – A Father’s Song
The forest was endless. The trees stretched toward the sky like towering monoliths, their bckened bark slick with morning dew. A crisp breeze whispered through the leaves, carrying the scent of pine and earth. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of a stream trickling over smooth stones filled the air, its melody soft, steady.
Sel sat on a moss-covered rock, her small hands gripping a delicate instrument, its wooden body carved with intricate sigils.
Her father sat beside her, legs crossed, posture rexed, his presence solid, warm, unshakable.
She turned to him, her youthful voice filled with curiosity. “What is this?”
He smiled—a rare sight. “A Lysviel.”
She ran her fingers over the polished wood, tracing the faint engravings. The shape of the instrument was unlike anything she had ever seen—a flute, but curved like a crescent moon, with thin metallic strings running along its spine.
“Where did it come from?”
Her father leaned back, tilting his head toward the sky. “It was made by a man named Rhaeldis Fen. A bardic alchemist. One of the best.”
Sel frowned. “Bardic… alchemist?”
He chuckled. “Yes. He was a craftsman who used Soul-Alchemy to infuse sound with power. Some said his music could mend wounds. Others cimed it could shatter stone.”
Her eyes widened. “Is that real?”
He gnced at her, his smile faint but knowing. “Alchemy isn’t just fire and steel, little shadow. It’s will. It’s sacrifice. It’s the shape your soul takes when you give something away.”
He pulled a second Lysviel from his pack—identical to hers.
Sel’s small fingers clenched around her own instrument. “I don’t know how to py.”
Her father tapped a rhythmic pattern against his knee, a patient gesture. “Then we’ll learn. Together.”
She hesitated. Then, mimicking his posture, she lifted the Lysviel to her lips and blew.
The sound was… awful.
A high-pitched, wheezing mess.
She scowled. Her father ughed.
“That was terrible.”
She huffed, tightening her grip. “I hate this.”
His amusement softened. “Do you? Or do you just hate failing?”
Sel pursed her lips.
“Again.”
She tried. And failed.
Again. And again.
Frustration built like a storm in her chest. Her father said nothing, only adjusting his own posture, pying a gentle, simple melody beside her, his fingers moving with careful intent.
And then—
Something clicked.
Her breathing steadied.
Her hands adjusted.
And for the first time, her notes aligned with his.
They pyed together.
And the wind moved with them.
For a moment, Sel felt something she never had before.
Something whole. Something special.
She was worth something.
Because he was there.
Because he made her feel like she was.
Years ter, Sel’s bare fingers pressed against the wet stone walls, her breath shallow, her chest tightening.
He left.
Her mind reeled, spiraling back to that day—the day she lost everything.
The day she ran through the woods, screaming his name.
Her boots crashed through the undergrowth, twigs snapping beneath her feet as she ran, desperation cwing at her throat.
“Where are you?!”
The shadows stretched long beneath the setting sun.
The wind whispered secrets she didn’t understand.
Then—
A growl.
Something moved in the darkness.
A shape—massive, grotesque, its body lined with jagged bck spikes, its four heads snapping in different directions, eyes gleaming with unnatural hunger.
It lunged.
Sel had no time to scream.
A silver fsh streaked through the air.
SHKKK—
The beast split in half, its massive body colpsing in a heap of bckened entrails, its blood steaming as it soaked into the earth.
A figure stood over it. Cloaked. Silent. A Hunter.
He turned slowly, his glistening bde reflecting the st rays of daylight.
“Are you alone?” his voice was deep, steady, unreadable.
Tears streamed down her face. “I can’t find him. I can’t—”
The Hunter crouched, gripping her shoulder. “Your father is missing. But we will take you in. We will help you find him.”
Blindly, Sel nodded.
Behind him, more Bck Clerics emerged from the shadows, their forms merging with the darkness, surrounding her like wraiths.
And so, she left.
And never looked back.
Sel’s eyes snapped open, the memory fading, she was back in reality.
Her fists clenched. The water had run cold.
She exhaled, her mind racing.
Since then, I’ve been striving for acceptance.
I’ve been striving to accept myself.
The Bck Chapel showed me the truth. Showed me how much of a coward he was for leaving. And I stayed.
But without him… I was hollow.
She used to sing their songs to herself.
And yet, now, she could hardly remember the melody.
Stepping out of the shower, she reached for a bck robe, pulling it over her shoulders.
The candlelight flickered.
And she felt nothing.
…
Sel sat near the arched window of her chamber, perched upon the wide stone ledge, one knee bent, her bck robe pooling around her legs. The cold gss pressed against her palm as she gazed out into the vast expanse of mountains and valleys, the ndscape bathed in the eerie glow of the bloodstained moon.
The Hollow Basilica stood alone in the abyss, a fortress of bck stone carved into the mountain itself, its stained-gss windows flickering with alchemic fire from within. Below, the forests stretched endlessly, an ocean of dark trees moving like whispering ghosts beneath the wind.
She should have been at peace.
She should have been focused on the hunt.
And yet, her thoughts drifted.
To him.
Lucien.
Sel’s fingers unconsciously tightened around the fabric of her robe.
Her jaw clenched as she thought about how her eyes kept being drawn to his throat, how a primal hunger crawled beneath her skin, a need she did not understand—one that made her stomach twist.
She had never thought of anyone this much before. Never fixated. Never longed.
But with Lucien…
She didn’t know.
She closed her eyes, willing the thoughts away. But even in darkness, his image remained—smirking, wild, untamed.
She exhaled sharply, pressing her forehead against the cold gss.
‘What the hell is wrong with me? And how dare he not take me seriously? He doesn’t see me as a threat? I’ll change that. He’ll be looking at me with fear in his eyes when I find out the true weakness to his power.’
In the depths of Drakhelm’s undercity, hidden between narrow alleys of alchemic smog and iron-wrought bridges, there sat a building long forgotten by time.
Lucien’s office.
A once-grand study now reduced to a cluttered mess of parchment, broken furniture, and alchemic residue, its walls lined with maps, bounty posters, and sketches of eldritch abominations. The wooden floor creaked under the weight of discarded books, and his desk was piled high with empty bottles of cheap liquor and unfinished reports.
And in the center of the chaos—Lucien, asleep.
His bed, if one could even call it that, was nothing more than a mattress shoved into the corner of the office, draped in a half-torn sheet. His coat y crumpled near his feet, his golden revolver resting atop the desk in easy reach. His breaths were deep, steady, his body sprawled with the recklessness of someone who never expected to wake up.
His summons y piled in a heap in the opposite corner.
The Joker, arms crossed, its massive frame hunched forward like a colpsed puppet.
The Queen, curled in a regal pose, one arm draped over the Jack, who seemed eternally displeased even in slumber.
The King remained perfectly still, the faint glow of his greatsword casting long shadows against the wall.
For a moment, the world was silent.
Then—Lucien’s mind stirred.
…..
Lucien found himself standing in an endless white void, stretching infinitely in every direction. A space between time. A dream. A prison. A summons.
And before him stood Artemis.
The Goddess of Chaos.
She was unlike any other divine figure—less a being of pure holiness, and more a contradiction of beauty and madness. Her form was sculpted in perfection, yet uncanny in its stillness. Her long, flowing dress was blood-red, yet shimmered like liquid silk, twisting in impossible patterns.
Her hair cascaded in waves of pure white, strands floating as if untethered by gravity. Behind her, a halo of crimson rose petals drifted in slow, mesmerizing orbits, pulsing faintly with an otherworldly glow. Her eyes, sharp as daggers, gleamed with untamed mischief, her lips curled in perpetual amusement.
Lucien stared, already exasperated.
“What do you mean I have to kill two more Purges?!”
Artemis let out a breathy ugh, tilting her head. “Oh? Are we compining now? I thought you loved mindless sughter.”
Before Lucien could retort, something warm and fluffy stirred on his shoulder.
He turned his head—
Torch was there.
Sitting. Watching. Blinking his molten-gold eyes.
Lucien screamed like a dying animal.
“WHY IS THIS DAMN CAT HERE?!”
Artemis folded her arms, watching with barely restrained glee. “Torch has always been here. He was my pet long before your world even existed.”
Lucien grabbed Torch by the head, holding him out at arm’s length like a cursed artifact.
“Kill this rat.”
Torch blinked. His tail flicked once.
Artemis smirked. “No.”
Lucien’s eye twitched. “Why not?”
She gestured vaguely. “Because I like him.”
Lucien let out a long, slow breath, rubbing his temple. “This is hell. I’m in hell.”
Artemis grinned. “And yet you refuse to die.”
Lucien tossed Torch aside—only for the damn cat to nd gracefully on his shoulder again.
He gritted his teeth. “I hate everything.”
Artemis sighed dramatically. “Enough theatrics. You have two more Purges to kill.”
Lucien exhaled through his nose. “Fine. Whatever. But what’s the deal with this Architect thing?”
“Oh? Where did you hear this from?”
“Random people. You know shits going crazy around this city.”
Artemis’ smile faded.
The air shifted.
And for the first time, she looked serious.
“The Marked Ones were not men,” she murmured, “nor were they entirely gods. They were Apostles of a higher will—fanatics who had touched the Bck Crystals and had their wishes granted. The price? A slow descent into madness, a transformation into something neither living nor dead.”
Lucien crossed his arms. “And?”
“There were fifty Marked Ones, each a pilr of the coming catastrophe. They seek to awaken ‘God.’”
Lucien scoffed. “A deity?”
Artemis shook her head.
“No.” She paused. “Something worse. An entity cocooned in the Moon, its twin resting dormant in the Sun.”
Lucien frowned.
Artemis continued, “The Architect sealed them away ages ago, using the power of a time deity to revert them to their rval stages. But now, the Marked Ones seek to undo the seal.”
Lucien sighed, already regretting asking. “And let me guess… that’ll be bad?”
“Once they hatch, they will enact True Judgment.”
Lucien shook his head. “Yeah. Okay. Fuck this.”
Artemis ughed. “That’s the spirit. You don’t need to worry about this, you should only focus on getting your soul.”
Lucien rolled his shoulders. “Fine, fine. Let me wake up. I’ve got two more Purges to kill.”
Artemis smirked. “How are you enjoying my power, by the way?”
Lucien scowled. “It’s different. Not like Soul-Alchemy.”
“Do you miss your own?”
Lucien’s fists clenched. “I forged my own power from my own soul. I hate using yours.”
Artemis’ grin widened. “And yet you do.”
Lucien turned away. “I don’t have a choice.”
The void shattered.
(Morning time)
Lucien’s eyes fluttered open—
And his breath hitched.
Sel was on top of him, her legs straddled on his stomach, Her lips pressed against his neck.
Her teeth sank into his flesh.
A slow, shuddering exhale left her as she drank.
Lucien y frozen, his muscles locked, his mind reeling.
His hands instinctively gripped her waist, but he did not push her away.
Because for the first time in his life…
He didn’t know what to do.
