Sovereign Pestilence

A shiny expensive black car pulled up to a gravel pathway. The car was a vision—sleek, powerful, and impossibly fast. Its body gleamed in a deep, metallic copper, catching the last light of the setting sun. Narrow, sharp headlights sliced through the shadows, giving it a fierce, almost predatory look. The front grille curved like a snarl, and the massive wheels hinted at untamed speed, ready to unleash at any moment.

With wide air intakes on the sides, the car looked built for more than just city streets. It was a machine of pure power, crafted for those unafraid to chase the horizon.

As the car parked, a beautiful woman stepped out. Her high-heeled black leather boots clicked with a mechanical rhythm as she stepped out onto the gravel stone and looked up at the old stone church up the hill. Putting on black tilted sunglasses, hiding her cold emotionless golden eyes, headed towards the church with a self-assuredness that suggested a lifetime of violence and certainty. Her long, wavy silver hair was tied high, falling to her lower back like a banner of ice against her smooth, fair skin, a shade that only hinted at warmth long extinguished. Even her attire – black leather pants, a matching jacket, and a white V-neck shirt – seemed chosen not for comfort but for efficiency, a uniform that hid secrets in its elegance. 

The church loomed ahead, a masterpiece of stone and shadow, standing tall and solemn against the overcast sky. Its spires reached upwards like fingers grasping at the heavens, each tower adorned with intricate stonework that spoke of centuries past. The central rose window, a circular marvel of gothic arches and floral designs, watched over the path below with a silent, all-seeing gaze.

A gravel path, flanked by low stone borders and framed by soft patches of wild grass and trees, led up to the entrance. Ancient, weathered walls held stories in every crack and crevice, whispering of prayers, secrets, and the echoes of a thousand voices. Above, bare branches hung low, giving the place an almost ethereal air, as if it existed somewhere between the mortal world and the divine. This was a place of reverence, mystery, and timeless beauty, a sanctuary that had withstood the passage of time, still as grand and imposing as the day it was raised.

A biting chill swept over her, slicing through the fabric of her thin white shirt and caressing her skin like icy fingers. The air was thick and heavy, a damp cold that sank into her bones, clinging to her as persistently as the dark thoughts she carried. Overhead, the sky was a canvas of dark grays, layered with ominous clouds that seemed to press downward, making the world feel smaller, more confined. The heavens bore down on the earth with a muted threat of snow or rain, the kind of weather that stripped color from the landscape, leaving everything tinged in shades of ash.

A gust of wind whipped across the churchyard, tousling her long, silver hair as she adjusted the collar of her leather jacket, though the cold didn't faze her. Her golden eyes swept over the empty grounds, taking in the barren trees whose skeletal branches clawed at the sky, blackened by the lack of sun. Even the distant caw of a raven seemed swallowed by the oppressive quiet, as if the entire world had paused to hold its breath.

She walked toward the church, her heels clicking with steady resolve against the frozen stone path, each step punctuated by the rasp of brittle leaves skittering across the ground, forced along by the relentless wind. The church loomed before her, a towering silhouette against the bleak horizon, its spires reaching up as if challenging the dark heavens above. The weight of the sky and the chill of the air created an atmosphere so thick it almost felt like the world itself was warning her, or perhaps was indifferent, as indifferent as she was.

Unbothered by the bleakness around her, she ascended the steps without pause, the shadows clinging to her until she reached the doors of the sanctuary. She paused, her gaze lifting toward the stained-glass windows, dulled and darkened beneath the gray skies, before she pushed open the heavy doors and stepped inside, leaving the cold world behind her.

Stepping inside the church was like entering a sacred palace, a place where artistry and devotion intertwined. Sunlight poured through high windows, casting a soft, golden glow over every inch of the vast, opulent space. Towering columns of marble stretched toward a vaulted ceiling, painted with celestial scenes and gilded accents that shimmered in the light. Above, the ceiling seemed alive, with swirling murals of angels and saints, their figures gracefully arched across the dome, their faces serene and timeless.

Intricate statues lined the walls, each carved with a reverence that seemed to capture the very essence of faith. Gold-leafed altars gleamed, their surfaces adorned with elaborate carvings and delicate filigree, reflecting light like a beacon. At the front, a grand altar commanded attention, framed by towering pillars and surrounded by a host of saintly figures watching over the pews.

The floors were tiled in a checkerboard pattern, leading the eye toward the altar as if drawing the faithful forward. The air was thick with the faint scent of incense and the quiet murmur of whispered prayers, creating a feeling of hushed reverence that made the vast space feel intimate, as though each visitor was a part of something divine. This building was a sanctuary of devotion, a testament to generations of faith and artistry.

The woman scanned the vast, empty hall. Her golden eyes, sharp and observant, traced every stone and shadow, as though seeing beyond what others could see. Pleased by the solitude, she walked calmly down the aisle, each step echoing in the silence until she stopped at the confession booth. The priest on the other side shifted, a slight rustle that betrayed a nervousness he could not quite mask. He knew who she was.

She could sense his fear.

"I've come to confess," she said, her voice a smooth monotone, void of pleading or remorse. If he was looking for sorrow, he would find none here.

The woman knelt before the confession booth, head bowed slightly, though her eyes – cold, unfeeling pools of gold – remained wide open, taking in the dim light filtering through stained glass and the flickering of votive candles around her.

"Excuse me, Father, for I have sinned."

The words echoed through the empty chamber as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, absorbing each syllable like a confession of their own. 

Her gaze fixed ahead, as if looking through the booth, through the walls, and into the past. Her words came slowly, each sentence as heavy as the stones of the church around her.

"I was sold when I was a child," she began, her voice calm, distant. "My grandfather needed money. I suppose I was easy to part with. The men he sold me to… they were scientists, or at least they called themselves that. To me, they were men in white coats who made promises to unlock the supernatural. They said they would make me special."

Her lips curled slightly, but it wasn't a smile. More of a bitter realization.

"They experimented on us – children, taken from everywhere. They kept us locked away, studied us, hurt us. At first, I screamed. At first, I cried. But soon, even the pain faded, or I forgot how to feel it. It didn't take long after that for the rest of my feelings to go numb, too. By the time I was thirteen, something inside me finally… snapped." She paused, as if recalling the moment her powers had awakened.

"I could decay things," she continued, her voice devoid of pride or shame. "They watched with fascination as I turned metal to rust and flesh to rot with a touch. They chained me, injected me, prodded me for hours until they could learn what they needed. But they never got the full answer." Her golden eyes glinted, a shadow of something dark. "By sixteen, I killed them. Every last scientist, every doctor, even the other children I was raised with. They were all part of it, all tainted by that place."

The priest behind the screen shifted again, the faint sound of beads clicking in his trembling hand. She knew he had probably heard terrible things before, but nothing quite like this.

"I tracked down my family after that. My grandfather, the man who had sold me, and everyone else who knew and did nothing. I killed them all. Family ties had lost meaning by then. Or perhaps I had just become so skilled at cutting them."

A pause, almost imperceptible, passed through her. She tilted her head slightly, as if listening to some unheard sound, then resumed.

"For the past few years, I have been with an organization called Black Peony. Perhaps you've heard of them," she added, though she doubted he would. "They took me in, trained me, honed what I had left into something efficient. Killing became… a job, a ritual. The only time I could remember feeling anything remotely close to satisfaction was in the execution of a perfect kill."

Her fingers rested lightly on her knee, their delicate appearance contrasting with the lethal control in her posture.

"And yet," she said, the faintest trace of irony creeping into her voice, "life has its own sense of humor. Because of those experiments, I developed a condition. Something rare. A degenerative kidney disease that, they tell me, leaves me with only days."

Her confession hung in the air like smoke, dissipating in the silence. There was no regret, no anger, only a plain recounting of events, each one leading her inexorably to this moment.

"So, Father, here I am," she finished. "I have sinned, yes. And I am told I will pay for those sins soon enough. But I came here to ask one question."

The priest's voice, trembling yet resolved, finally broke through the silence. "And what is that, my child?"

Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, there was the faintest flicker of something beneath her cold exterior. Curiosity, perhaps.

"When a soul like mine dies," she asked, her voice low and dark, "does it truly rest in peace? Or does it continue to rot, like everything I touch?"

Silence fell again, deeper and heavier than before. The priest, stricken, found no answer in his faith or his years of service. She rose, unbothered by his lack of response, and with the same unhurried grace, turned and walked back down the aisle, her footsteps fading into the dark recesses of the church.

And with that, Visha Morticia Tanith disappeared into the night, leaving nothing but the memory of her confession echoing through the hollow, timeless walls.