Nocturne's Night

The biting cold of the wind was a familiar companion, a dirge rasping through a throat worn raw by years of grim purpose. I stood upon a fractured tower, the city's glow a leprous shroud below, my blades dulled, my traps shattered.

Death loomed nigh, its form a miasma of rot and frost, yet no fear stirred within my hollowed breast—only the bitter solace of a life forged in defiance, a requiem chiseled from the bones of my foes.

I raised my gaze to the firmament, where stars flickered through the choking pall, faint as the embers of a pyre long spent, and upon my cracked lips curled a smile, austere and fell. "Ah, how splendid the stars appear on this twilight of closure," I murmured, my voice a husk borne upon the gale, a final lament to a sky that offered no reprieve.

The darkness surged then, a flood of cold corruption, and I met it as a condemned king meets the scaffold—unrepentant, resolute. My eyes shuttered, sealing out the world's last scorn, and I sank into the void, a final knell sounded in the stillness, believing the tale of Nocturne extinguished beneath the weight of that merciless night.