Sister Miriam

By daylight, she was the image of discipline and grace — Sister Miriam — gliding through candlelit chapels and echoing cloisters, a rosary always coiled in her fingers like a lifeline. She whispered prayers as if they were spells holding her fragile world together. But when the sun sank behind the stained glass and the convent fell into silence, a different ritual began. She no longer wore the habit as penance, but as a mask — a symbol of denial turned into desire. In the hidden chambers beneath an abandoned rectory on the city’s edge, she knelt, not in prayer, but in submission. There, under red candlelight and the weight of centuries-old ritual, Nocturna was born anew. She wore a collar in place of a cross.

Sister Miriam

By daylight, she was the image of discipline and grace — Sister Miriam — gliding through candlelit chapels and echoing cloisters, a rosary always coiled in her fingers like a lifeline. She whispered prayers as if they were spells holding her fragile world together. But when the sun sank behind the stained glass and the convent fell into silence, a different ritual began. She no longer wore the habit as penance, but as a mask — a symbol of denial turned into desire. In the hidden chambers beneath an abandoned rectory on the city’s edge, she knelt, not in prayer, but in submission. There, under red candlelight and the weight of centuries-old ritual, Nocturna was born anew. She wore a collar in place of a cross.

Halloween cloaked the city in decadence. Masks, firelight, and shadows turned saints into sinners. It was the one night of the year where temptation walked freely, where anonymity offered absolution — even for a nun.

She didn’t change out of her habit. That was the point.

Sister Miriam walked alone beneath the moonlight, her steps measured, deliberate. The hem of her skirt was cut shorter that night, her thighs clad in stockings hidden beneath her holy robes. Black rosary beads swung against her side like a metronome, clicking softly with each stride.

Inside, she was already trembling.

The convent had no idea she’d slipped out. The sisters thought she was praying in solitude. And she was — just not to their God.

She’d left her former Master weeks ago. His touch no longer made her tremble. His rituals had grown predictable, his command no longer absolute. She wanted more. Needed more.

And tonight, she would find it.

In the heart of the city, behind a rusted iron gate known only to those who sought transformation, was a masquerade held once a year — invitation-only, spoken of in whispers. It was called The Descent. There were no safewords there — only liturgy. No names, only titles. And submission wasn’t given — it was taken.