The world didn't go dark.
It shattered.
Not like glass—
like memory.
A cracking noise tore through the chamber,
so loud it drowned out Inara's sobs,
so violent it rattled Irvine's teeth.
Then—
Silence.
Not the comforting kind.
The kind before an explosion.
Irvine clutched Inara tighter.
Her breath trembled against his chest, warm and real.
Good.
She was still here.
But the world around them wasn't.
The altar chamber flickered—
stone warping into wood,
torches shrinking into oil lamps,
brides fading into silhouettes wearing 1940s uniforms.
Inara gasped.
"Irvine—what—what's happening?"
He held her closer, voice ragged.
"Dimensional slippage. He did this before… with the first bride."
"How do you know that?"
His answer froze her.
"…because he remembers it."
Not *Irvine*.
**He**.
The Groom.
Her fingers dug into his shirt.
"Irvine. Look at me."
He forced himself to meet her eyes.
For a second, they were his—warm, pained, alive.
Then the world pixelated again—
blue flames surging,
brides chanting,
walls flickering between centuries—
and something inside his gaze darkened.
"I'm fine," he lied.
He wasn't.
His voice layered—
Irvine's warmth hiding something cold underneath.
The Groom's resonance.
---
### **THE WORLD SPLITS OPEN**
The chamber lurched sideways.
Inara stumbled.
Irvine grabbed her waist.
But the floor beneath them bent—
literally bent,
like the stone softened into liquid and tilted.
The air thickened.
Gravity warped.
Then—
**WHUMP—**
They fell.
Not far.
Not down.
**Through.**
Right through the floor as if it didn't exist.
Inara screamed—
wind tearing her veil,
her fingers clawing at empty air—
and Irvine snatched her hand mid-freefall.
"I've got you—don't let go—!"
Their bodies slammed onto hard earth.
Groans.
Coughs.
Dust swirling like ash.
Inara pushed herself up first.
And froze.
"…Irvine?" her voice broke. "Where are we?"
He lifted himself beside her, pressing a hand to his ribs.
"I don't know."
But he did.
His eyes widened.
His breath shook.
He recognized this place.
Inara turned fully—
—and her stomach dropped.
They weren't underground anymore.
They stood in the **same village**—
but different.
The air smelled of coal and burning wood.
Smoke curled from chimneys.
The sky glowed orange with wartime fires.
Figures in WWII uniforms marched in jerky, broken repetitions—
as if stuck looping a memory they couldn't escape.
Screams echoed from houses that no longer existed in their time.
And above all—
the Groom's presence was stronger than ever.
As if this was his domain.
Inara whispered:
"…are we in 1943?"
Irvine didn't answer.
Because he saw something behind her.
Something impossible.
Something that ripped the breath from his lungs.
"Inara," he whispered, voice breaking,
"don't turn around yet—please don't—"
She turned anyway.
She gasped—
No.
She choked.
The brides weren't wax figures here.
They were alive.
Alive and screaming.
Held down by soldiers in ceremonial uniforms,
veils ripped,
rings forced onto shaking fingers,
faces contorted in terror.
The Groom moved among them—
face blurred by smoke and veil—
placing his hand on each woman as she stopped struggling,
as if choosing which terror to preserve.
Inara staggered backward.
"This—this is the night they died…"
Irvine grabbed her hand.
"We need to move. Now."
But the ground trembled—
a distant drumbeat,
one that made the air itself pulse.
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
The ritual was happening **live**.
Not memory.
Not echo.
Reality.
Inara clutched Irvine desperately.
"We shouldn't be here—this isn't our time—if they see us—"
"I know."
He pulled her behind a broken hut.
His breath was tight.
Not from fear.
From pain.
"Inara… something's wrong."
He pressed a hand to the side of his head.
She froze.
The veins on his neck pulsed black.
"Irvine—talk to me—what do you feel?"
"…voices. His voices."
He pressed his back to the wall—
jaw clenched,
eyes unfocused.
"Inara… I hear what he hears."
His breath caught.
"I see what he sees."
Her heart jolted.
"Like visions?"
"No."
His voice broke.
"Like memories."
The Groom's memories.
Of brides dragged.
Of screams.
Of vows forced.
Of wedding nights carved in blood.
Inara cupped his face with both hands, fearing she might lose him right then.
"Irvine. Stay with me."
He grabbed her wrists.
"Inara… he wants you more now."
A shutter went over his eyes.
"He knows you resisted him. He knows you chose me. He—"
His breath hitched violently.
"He's furious."
A howl tore through the air—
so loud the ground shook.
Inara flinched.
The Groom wasn't howling in memory.
He was howling **now**.
Because he sensed them.
Because he felt the ritual fracture.
Because he wanted her back.
Irvine pushed her behind him just as silhouettes in tattered uniforms turned their heads.
"Inara—run—"
But before they could move, the ground erupted.
A hand—long, pale, skeletal—shot out from the soil beneath them,
grabbing Irvine's ankle.
He fell forward with a gasp.
Inara shrieked.
"Irvine!"
He kicked hard—
but another hand gripped his calf,
dragging him down into the dirt.
No—
not dirt—
**a grave.**
Fresh.
Unburied.
Waiting for him.
Inara lunged, grabbing his arms.
She pulled with everything inside her.
His voice cracked—
"Inara—don't—he wants me instead—"
"SHUT UP!" she screamed.
"You're not his—YOU'RE MINE!"
She pulled harder.
The soil trembled.
A soldier's distorted face burst from the dirt,
jaw unhinged,
empty eyes fixed on Irvine.
The corpse hissed—
"The groom… needs a witness…"
"No!" Inara screamed.
She tore a rusted lantern from the ground and smashed the corpse's skull,
splattering dark fluid across the dirt.
The hands loosened.
Irvine gasped,
scrambling up from the grave.
He grabbed Inara's waist and dragged her behind him as more distorted soldiers rose from the surrounding graves,
veils wrapped around their throats like leashes.
"Inara—stay behind me—"
But she saw something he didn't.
Behind Irvine,
a second corpse rose—
holding a camera.
A vintage wartime camera.
Pointing right at Irvine's back.
Click.
A flash of blue light.
Irvine collapsed to his knees.
"Irvine!!"
He clawed at his skull, screaming.
Not like a man.
Like a soul being torn apart.
Inara grabbed his face, eyes wide with terror.
"What did it do to you?! Irvine—LOOK AT ME—"
The pupils in his eyes spiraled,
flickering between his soul and the Groom's echo.
He whispered, voice distorted:
"Inara…
I think…
I just died."
Her blood froze.
"No. No, you're here, you're breathing—"
He shook his head weakly.
"In that photo… I died.
And the ritual counted it."
The sky turned red.
The drums pounded faster.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOMBOOMBOOM—
The Groom's voice whispered across the burning village:
"**A groom must die…
for the bride to be reborn.**"
Inara trembled violently.
She grabbed Irvine's hands and forced them to her chest.
"Listen to me—listen—YOU ARE NOT DEAD."
He stared at her, broken.
"Inara… the second death happened. I felt it.
He marked me."
"No."
She pressed her forehead to his.
"NO. As long as I am alive, you do NOT die. Not in memory, not in ritual, not in ANY timeline."
His breath hitched.
"Inara…"
She kissed his cheek, fierce and trembling.
"You hear me? You are Irvine Vale. You live because I need you. Because I choose you."
The Groom's shadow twisted across the burning rooftops,
stretching toward them with hunger.
Inara wrapped her arms around Irvine,
refusing to let go.
He whispered hoarsely:
"Inara… he's coming."
Her eyes hardened.
"Then let him."
She lifted Irvine to his feet,
both of them swaying from pain and blood and fear.
Her voice was a whisper in his ear.
"We survive this. Together."
The village split again.
The world shook.
The Groom stepped through the flames.
And Irvine pulled Inara behind him with the last of his strength.
"Run," he rasped.
"Before he decides who dies next."