The forest shouldn't have been there.
When Inara stumbled away from the collapsing cobblestones, she expected ruins,
old barracks, rusted trenches—anything except trees.
But the path had changed.
Where there had been rooftops and broken chimneys, now stood a line of tall,
skeletal pines, their branches twisting like fingers pointing at the sky.
Bark peeled like dead skin. Moss dripped like old blood.
And everything smelled wrong.
Not dirt.
Not rain.
Not forest.
Iron. Cold iron.
The kind Irvine carried home after cutting his palms during renovations.
War iron.
Her breath quickened. She pressed the walkie to her lips.
"Irvine… I—I don't know where I am. The village moved."
Static.
A pause.
Then his voice, low and steady, forcing calm he didn't feel:
"Inara, listen to me. Do not go deeper. Stay in the open. I'm coming to you."
She turned.
There was no open anymore.
Only trees.
And the strange, humming silence between them.
The walkie crackled again—this time not with Irvine's voice, but with a faint
echo behind him. Something brushing stone. Something breathing.
"Inara," he whispered, "I hear footsteps down here. I'm not alone."
Her knees weakened. "Please just keep talking to me."
"I will. Just stay where—"
A sharp SNAP echoed.
Not from the walkie.
From the trees.
Inara froze.
The sound came again—snap… crunch… drag—as if something walked barefoot,
breaking sticks, pulling weight across the forest floor. Slow. Intentional.
Something watching her.
She backed away, clutching the walkie so tight her knuckles turned white.
"Irvine… something's moving."
"Where?"
"Everywhere."
Her voice cracked. "They're… circling."
A sudden gust, cold and sharp, cut across her cheek.
Not wind. Breath.
Then she saw it.
Between two twisted pines, a figure limped into view.
A man—or what used to be one—wearing the remains of an old military coat.
His spine bent at the wrong angle. His jaw unhinged too wide.
His eyes—if the dark pits could be called eyes—locked onto her.
He wasn't walking.
He was following a scent.
Her scent.
Irvine's voice broke through the static.
"Inara, RUN. Now. Run and do NOT look back."
She didn't need to be told twice.
Her heels clacked, slipped, scratched against roots and mud as she bolted
deeper into the forest. Branches whipped her arms.
Her wedding dress tore against thorns.
Behind her, the distorted soldier screeched—a horrible, strangled sound
like metal being twisted under water.
Then more screeches.
One.
Two.
Three.
They were coming down the trees.
Inara heard them before she saw them—bodies sliding, limbs scraping bark,
the sound of nails dragging across wood.
As if they'd been waiting above her, clinging like spiders.
She choked on a scream.
"Irvine—they're in the TREES—they're ABOVE me—"
"Inara, listen to me. Don't run in a straight line. Zig-zag. Break their sight lines."
Sight lines.
Right.
Sniper training trick he once told her.
She veered left, then sharply right, her dress snagging branches like
desperate hands trying to pull her back.
The walkie clattered against her chest as she ran.
Branches shook above her—too fast.
Too many.
Snap. Snap. SNAP.
Something dropped from a branch behind her, landing so close she felt the
air burst against her calves. A long, pale hand swiped for her ankle,
missing by inches.
"Inara, where are you now? Tell me landmarks!"
"Trees!" she cried. "Just trees!"
"That village had no forest. It's wrong. It's—"
His voice cut out.
Static swallowed him.
Then a whisper, not Irvine's, slithered through the frequency:
"Bride…"
Her blood turned to ice.
"No—no—no—"
She threw the walkie aside in panic, but the voice continued—without the device.
It echoed through the forest.
So close it might have been inside her ear.
"Bride…
don't run…
you'll tear your veil…"
Tears stung her eyes. "Irvine, where ARE you—?!"
She didn't see the tree root until her foot hooked under it.
She fell hard, palms scraping dirt. Pain shot through her knees.
The world tilted.
The forest went silent.
Everything stopped.
Not the soldier-creatures.
Not the whispers.
But something else.
A presence.
A command.
The tall trees bowed slightly—as if something massive walked between them.
Inara forced herself to look up.
And there, outlined between the pines, stood a figure taller than anyone
she had ever seen. Dressed in an ancient ceremonial uniform—black,
gold, rotted lace. His posture perfect. His head tilted as if studying her.
She couldn't see his face.
Only the outline of a groom's veil drifting behind him like smoke.
Her breath shattered.
The Groom.
He stepped forward once—
and all the soldier-creatures froze in place.
Like obedient guests awaiting a ceremony.
Inara crawled backward, trembling, mud staining her dress.
The Groom lifted one hand.
Her chest constricted, as if invisible fingers pressed against her ribs.
"Inara? Inara, answer me!" Irvine's voice exploded back into the walkie.
She grabbed it with shaking fingers.
"Irvine—he's here—he's RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME—"
A long silenceThen, with a voice that cracked for the first time since the collapse:
"Inara… whatever you do—don't let him touch you."
The Groom took another step.
Leaves curled.
Branches bent.
The entire forest bowed to him.
His hand reached forward—
and her torn wedding veil rose as if caught by invisible fingers.
"Bride."