The forest didn't stop shaking until Irvine and Inara were a quarter mile
away—
running blindly through fog that moved like living breath.
Irvine didn't let go of her wrist for a second.
Her fingers were freezing.
Her steps uneven.
Her dress torn to shreds.
But she was warm—
alive—
his.
They stumbled into a narrow ravine carved between two cliffs, the walls
protecting them from the shifting, traitorous forest.
Only when they were safely obscured by rock did Irvine pull her into his
arms.
He didn't speak.
He couldn't.
He just held her.
Inara clung back, trembling so hard he felt it through his bones.
"I thought—" she choked, breath hitching, "I thought you were gone."
He rested his forehead against hers.
"I told you," he whispered, voice shaking, "not even death is taking me
from you."
Her breath broke. Tears ran down her cheeks, smearing dirt across her skin.
He wiped them gently with his thumb.
"We're not done," he said. "Not until we get out. Not until that thing is
dead."
The walkie hissed in his pocket—
no voice, just static like something scraping teeth against the frequency.
Both of them stiffened.
"We need shelter," Irvine said. "Something with walls. Doors. Anything."
They followed the ravine until a shape emerged through the fog.
A bunker entrance—
half buried, metal door crooked, vines swallowing its surface.
But it wasn't like the others.
This one had no markings.
No runes.
No iron smell.
Neutral ground.
Or as close to neutral as this cursed village would allow.
Irvine tested the door. It groaned, resisting. He pushed harder—metal
screeching, hinges snapping—
And it opened.
He guided Inara inside.
The air was cold, but not suffocating.
Dusty, but not rancid.
A storage room—
broken crates, old tools, military tarps.
Safe enough.
For now.
Irvine shut the door quietly and slid a plank of wood through the handle,
forming a crude barricade.
Then he turned to her.
Inara's dress—white lace stained brown—hung in ribbons around her legs.
Her arms were scratched.
Her cheek bruised.
But her eyes… her eyes were burning. Alive. Fighting.
He cupped her face, voice thick.
"You held on."
"So did you."
He tried to smile. It broke halfway.
"Sit," he said gently.
He pulled an old tarp into a corner, creating a crude mat. Inara sank onto
it, leaning back against the wall with a long, shaky exhale.
Irvine dropped to one knee in front of her, checking her arms for deeper
wounds.
"Inara… did he touch you?"
She shook her head immediately. "No. He only—watched."
He closed his eyes for one second. Relief hit so hard it nearly unsteadied
him.
"Good," he murmured. "Good…"
But then her fingers curled into his jacket, gripping him tight.
"Irvine," she whispered, "you… you didn't see him from where I was. When
you ran toward me…"
Her voice wavered.
"I thought he was going to choose you."
He blinked.
"…me?"
She swallowed hard.
"The way he stopped when you got close. The way he turned. Like he was…
looking at you."
A cold pressure slid down Irvine's spine.
He tried to shake it off.
But Inara stared at him—eyes wide, throat bobbing.
"I think… you can see him in ways I can't."
"Inara—"
"Irvine, what if he's connected to you too?"
Silence.
Then—
A sound cracked inside Irvine's skull.
Not in the room.
Inside him.
Like a whisper echoed through bone.
**"…shadow…"**
He stiffened.
Inara saw it.
"Irvine… what was that?"
He swallowed, jaw tightening.
"I don't know."
He did.
He knew.
He just didn't want to say it aloud.
---
The bunker shuddered.
A familiar groaning—
metal warping—
stone shifting above them.
Inara's nails dug into his sleeve.
"He found us."
"Not yet," Irvine muttered.
He stood, pacing near the door, trying to think.
Trying to breathe.
Trying to ignore the growing pressure behind his eyes.
It pulsed.
Hard.
Rhythmic.
Too similar to a heartbeat that wasn't his.
He grabbed his head.
Then—
Darkness swallowed his vision.
Not blackout.
Not fainting.
A pull.
Like his mind was yanked forward, dragged through fog, shoved into someone
else's skull.
The world around him blurred—
And then Irvine wasn't in the bunker anymore.
---
He stood in the forest.
But not as himself.
He was taller.
Heavier.
Moving with impossible stillness.
Branches bent to make way.
Fog curled like ribbons around his legs.
And far ahead—
Inara.
Running.
Breathing hard.
Terrified.
His chest expanded—not with human breath, but with something older, hungrier.
A cold satisfaction rippled through him.
**Mine.**
The word came from inside his bones.
Inside his lungs.
Inside a voice that wasn't Irvine's.
His hand—pale, veined, too long—reached for her veil.
"Bride…"
Irvine snapped back into his body with a violent gasp.
The bunker walls reformed around him.
He staggered, gripping a crate to stay upright.
Inara rushed to him, cupping his face.
"Irvine—hey—what happened? Look at me—look at me—"
He opened his eyes.
Her face blurred, then sharpened.
"Inara… I think I saw what he sees."
She froze.
"What?"
"It wasn't a memory. It wasn't a hallucination."
He swallowed hard.
"It was now."
Her breath hitched.
"He's tracking us," she whispered.
"Not tracking," Irvine said, voice hollow. "Hunting."
She gripped his arms.
"We need to get out of the village before you lose yourself," she whispered.
"No," he said sharply, grabbing her hands. "I won't lose myself. I won't
become him."
"Irvine, it's not about becoming him. It's about… him using you."
He went still.
"Using… me?"
Inara nodded slowly, eyes glossy with fear.
"Maybe that's how the ritual works. Bride and Groom aren't separate. They're
connected. One chosen by the vow. One chosen by the hunt."
He stared at her.
She continued, voice trembling:
"I think you're becoming—
The Groom's Shadow."
Irvine's breath left him in one sharp exhale.
A shadow.
A reflection.
A vessel for sight.
"That's why you saw what he saw," she whispered. "Why you feel him. Why you
knew where I was."
Irvine clenched his jaw.
"If he thinks I'm his shadow… I'll use it against him."
Inara's eyes widened. "Irvine—"
"I can see his path," he said. "His movements. His hunger. If I can control
it—if I can look through him—then we can stay ahead of him."
"That's dangerous."
"So is everything else here."
He stepped closer, cupping her cheek.
"You're my wife. My real wife. Not his ritual. Not his myth. The only vow I
made is to you. So if he thinks he can use me—"
His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.
"—then I'm using him first."
Inara's breathing quickened. Fear and fierce love tangled in her eyes.
"Irvine… I trust you. But promise me something."
"Anything."
"If you feel him taking too much…"
She gripped his shirt.
"…you tell me. You don't hide it. Not even to protect me."
He nodded slowly.
"I promise."
She exhaled shakily.
But before they could speak again—
A deep thud echoed from above.
Dust drifted from the ceiling.
Another thud.
Heavier.
Closer.
Then—
**CRACK.**
A long, jagged line split across the bunker ceiling…
like something massive dragged its nails across the concrete.
The whisper returned inside Irvine's skull—
unwanted, heavy, crawling beneath his skin.
**"…shadow…"**
His heart hammered.
Inara grabbed his hand.
"Irvine—he's calling for you."
"No," he growled. "He's trying to pull me."
The walls groaned.
The ceiling buckled.
Dust rained down like snow.
Inara cried out as Irvine shielded her with his body.
Another crack split the ceiling—
this time revealing a sliver of pale fabric drifting above.
A veil.
The Groom's veil.
Irvine's fingers dug into the dirt.
"We need to run," he said, breath uneven.
"Where?"
He stared at the cracking ceiling.
"The altar bunker," he whispered. "He keeps leading us there. That has to be
the core of everything. The cult. The ritual. The photograph. The brides."
"And if it's a trap?"
His jaw tightened.
"It doesn't matter. If the Groom wants the ceremony, then we end the ceremony
at its source."
Inara nodded slowly.
She trusted him.
Even like this.
He took her hand, squeezing once.
"We run together."
"Always," she whispered.
The ceiling cracked fully—
stone collapsing—
a pale hand pushing through—
Irvine pulled Inara toward the side exit door he spotted earlier behind a
fallen crate.
He rammed his shoulder into it—
Wood splintered.
Cold air rushed in.
They escaped into the night just as the bunker ceiling caved.
Behind them—
a distorted, unholy scream tore through the forest.
Not human.
Not spirit.
A command.
A claim.
**"…shadow… bride… return…"**
Inara's grip tightened.
"Irvine…"
"I know."
His voice trembled but held steel.
"He's getting stronger."
Fog swirled.
Branches bent.
The forest shifted toward the direction of the altar bunker like a compass
pulling a needle.
And for the first time—
Irvine felt it deep inside him:
the pull.
The Groom's path
opening inside his mind
like a map of hunger and longing.
Inara noticed the change in his expression.
"What do you see?"
He exhaled shakily.
"A route," he whispered.
"A way to the altar… through his eyes."
Inara swallowed.
"Then lead me."
He looked at her.
Really looked.
She wasn't just scared.
She was choosing him—
choosing to walk into hell with him
even if he might not come back the same.
He squeezed her hand once more.
"Stay close," he murmured. "If I drift… pull me back."
She nodded, stepping closer—bodies touching, breath shared.
"I'll always pull you back."
They turned toward the shifting forest.
Fog thickened.
Trees bowed.
And Irvine whispered—
"I'm coming for you, Groom."
He guided Inara into the darkness.
Following the monster's own path.
Not as prey.
Not as shadow.
But as the man determined to destroy him.