Irvine hit the dirt hard.
One moment he was sprinting through the trees, chasing the echo of Inara's
footsteps—
the next, the ground vanished beneath him, swallowing him whole like a
closing throat.
He twisted mid-fall, instinct overpowering panic, arms shielding his head
as he crashed through rotted wooden planks and slid down a steep incline.
Dust. Rock. Old metal.
He stopped only when his shoulder slammed against a concrete wall, jarring
every nerve in his body.
For a few seconds, he couldn't breathe.
Then he forced air into his lungs, pushing up slowly, coughing until the
tunnel around him came into focus.
A bunker.
Another one.
Deeper.
Older.
Unmapped.
The walls were thicker here—poured concrete reinforced with rusted iron
bars. The air felt tight and stale, like it had not been exchanged with the
outside world for decades.
He lifted his flashlight.
The light danced across the walls.
And Irvine froze.
The walls were carved.
Not with graffiti.
Not with names.
With tally marks.
Miles of them.
Scratched with fingernails, knives, broken bone fragments.
Hundreds. Thousands.
A record of waiting.
A record of suffering.
A record of time.
He dragged his fingers across the jagged grooves. Dust flaked under his
touch.
Then he noticed something else—
fragments embedded between the talley marks.
Fabric.
Lace.
White.
Wedding lace.
His pulse dropped into a cold abyss.
"No… don't tell me…"
He followed the lace to a corner wall, where the carvings changed shape.
No more tally marks.
Now: symbols.
Circles.
Crossed triangles.
A vertical slash through an upside-down V.
Red chalk smeared into runes.
A phrase, scratched over and over in dying hands:
**SHE IS THE KEY.
THE BRIDE OPENS.
THE BRIDE CLOSES.
THE BRIDE FEEDS.**
Irvine's stomach lurched.
His fingers trembled.
This wasn't a shelter from the war.
It was a cage.
A sanctum.
A ritual chamber.
The so-called "wartime refugees" hadn't been hiding here.
They had been *kept* here.
Slaughtered here.
Used here.
And the cult didn't want random victims.
They wanted a bride.
"Inara…" he whispered, voice shaking. "Baby, don't let them turn you into
this."
He reached for the walkie, desperate—
STATIC exploded so loud it made him drop it.
Then—
A faint… breath.
Not hers.
Lower.
Heavier.
Old enough to smell like dust and rot.
"…groooom…"
Irvine flinched, grabbing the walkie again.
"You want me?" he snarled, voice roughening. "Come find me. Leave her alone.
You hear me? Come for me."
Silence.
Never a good sign.
He moved forward, deeper into the tunnel.
The deeper he went, the more the bunker changed—
the air thickened
the walls narrowed
and the ceiling dipped so low he had to crouch.
Metal creaked above him—groaning under the weight of the entire cursed
village.
Irvine forced himself to keep going.
He had to.
If this place wanted Inara…
If it had chosen her…
If the Groom had marked her…
Then the only way out was through the heart of the nightmare.
He stepped into a massive chamber.
And everything inside him froze.
The room was round—
shaped like a ceremonial hall.
Stone benches were arranged like pews.
An altar stood at the center, stained with dark red marks that had turned
brown.
The walls were lined with helmets—
German, French, British—
stacked like skulls on display.
Under each helmet lay a photograph.
Not of soldiers.
Of brides.
Black and white.
Faded.
Each woman wore a veil.
Each woman had her eyes scratched out.
He felt bile crawl up his throat.
"No… no, no, no…"
Then he saw it—
A new photograph.
Fresh.
Color.
Print still glossy.
He snatched it from the floor—
And his heart stopped.
It was Inara.
Standing in the woods.
Veil torn.
Face pale with terror.
Dress shredded.
But her eyes—
Her eyes were blacked out.
Not printed that way.
Scratched out.
Violently.
By hand.
Irvine's vision blurred.
His breath shattered.
"No—this isn't real—she's not—she's not one of them—she can't be—"
He punched the altar so hard bone nearly cracked.
His chest burned.
His lungs refused to expand.
"Inara…" he whispered, forehead pressed to the stone. "…I'll die here before
I let them take you."
He staggered back, trying to steady himself.
A sound echoed behind him.
Soft.
Rhythmic.
Not footsteps.
A voice.
A woman's voice.
Singing.
Not melodically.
Not sanely.
A lullaby sung in a language Irvine didn't recognize—
old, wet, twisted, like the song had been drowned underwater and dragged
back up from a grave.
He turned slowly.
A figure stood at the far end of the room.
Long veil.
Blackened dress.
Bare feet pale as bone.
Head tilted to the side, like listening for something distant.
The Phantom Bride.
The same one Inara saw.
The same one from the photos.
Her veil shivered.
Then—
very gently—
she lifted her hand.
Her gesture was identical to the one she had used on Inara.
An invitation.
Or a warning.
Irvine didn't know which.
He stepped back, knife raised, camera shaking in his other hand.
She didn't move closer.
She only pointed—
slowly—
toward a doorway behind the altar.
A deeper passage.
A darker passage.
The path the Groom took.
Her veil fluttered, urging him to follow.
"I'm not here for you," Irvine whispered. "I'm here for her."
The phantom bride tilted her head the other way—so sharply it snapped like
breaking wood.
Irvine froze.
Her voice, layered and echoing, spilled through the room.
"…run…"
His blood iced.
"Run?" he echoed. "From what?"
She lifted both hands now—trembling—like she was pushing something *away*.
"…run… groom… coming…"
Then the torches lining the walls all blew out—
simultaneously—
like a giant exhale.
Darkness slammed into the chamber.
Irvine spun, lightning shooting down his spine.
The ground trembled.
A low hum rose through the floor—
vibrating up his legs, through his ribs, into his skull.
Footsteps.
Heavy.
Measured.
Ceremonial.
The Groom.
Irvine backed toward the doorway the phantom bride pointed to.
His flashlight flickered violently—
then died.
No time to think.
He sprinted.
---
The tunnel swallowed him whole.
Every few steps, he heard it—
the Groom's footsteps above and behind, like the village rearranged itself
just to keep him within reach.
Irvine's lungs burned. Sweat stung his eyes.
"Inara—please—talk to me—just one word—one sound—anything—"
Silence.
Until—
A distant scream.
High.
Shrill.
Torn from the throat of someone fighting for their life.
"Inara!"
He sprinted harder.
Hard enough his legs nearly buckled.
The tunnel angled upward—
old metal rungs forming a ladder to another hatch.
He climbed, yanking himself through—
And froze.
He was in the forest again.
Different place.
Same trees.
Same fog.
Same war-bent geometry of a place that rearranged itself like a living maze.
"Inara!" he shouted again, voice cracking. "INA—"
A walkie crackled.
Then—
Her voice.
Soft.
Broken.
Barely more than a breath.
"…Ir…vine…"
He nearly collapsed.
"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm right here."
She inhaled shakily.
"I think… he wants me in the bunker…" she whispered. "He keeps opening paths
toward it…"
"I'm coming. Don't let him guide you. Don't let him claim you."
"I—I feel like I'm losing myself…"
His heart shattered.
"You are Inara," he whispered fiercely. "You are mine. Not his. Hold onto
that. Hold onto me."
The forest suddenly shifted again—
the path in front of him opening like a mouth.
A trail of petals lined the ground.
Red.
Wet.
Sticky.
Blood.
Not petals.
He followed.
He didn't have a choice.
Trees loomed like warped cathedral pillars.
Fog curled like wedding tulle.
And at the end of the path—
A figure stood.
Shaking.
Holding her arms.
Veil torn.
Dress ripped.
"Inara…"
His voice broke.
She slowly turned.
Her eyes were wet with tears.
"Irvine…" she breathed.
Then her gaze flicked behind him.
And her face drained of color.
"Don't… move…"
Irvine stiffened.
A cold breath slid down the back of his neck.
The Groom stood inches behind him—
silent—
towering—
wedding veil drifting like death's wings.
Irvine didn't breathe.
Inara didn't blink.
The Groom lifted one hand—
toward Irvine's shoulder.
The air warped.
Reality bent.
The forest bowed.
The Phantom Bride appeared beside Inara—
head tilted, veil fluttering, hands trembling—
And with a distorted, broken voice, she whispered:
"…run… groom… choosing…"
Irvine lunged.
He grabbed Inara's wrist—
and together—
they ran.
Into the darkness before the Groom could touch them.