The tunnel stretched endlessly ahead of Inara, carved from stone so old
it seemed to sweat memories. Bones lined the ceiling in arching ribs,
curving above her like the inside of something that had once been alive.
The Groom walked beside her.
Not touching.
Not speaking.
But every step he took rewrote the air around them.
The tunnel responded to him—
brighter when he wished it so,
darker when he willed it,
the ground flattening or rising under his stride.
Walking with him felt like traveling through *decision*, not through space.
Inara swallowed hard.
"Irvine… hold on. I'm coming back."
Her voice echoed.
But not alone.
A second echo repeated her whisper in a lower, broken murmur:
*"…coming back…"*
She flinched.
The Groom's veil drifted with a soft rustle.
He did not turn, but she felt his attention settle on her like pressure
against glass.
"You need not speak to him," he murmured, voice velvet and cold.
"He cannot hear you anymore."
"He can," she snapped.
"He promised me."
The Groom tilted his head with calm amusement.
"A promise spoken by the living weakens quickly in the realm of the dead."
Inara's chest tightened.
"I'm still alive."
"For now."
He glided forward, and the tunnel widened into a cavern lit by flickering
blue flames along the walls. Each flame held a shape—faces frozen in
eternal mid-scream.
Inara stumbled back.
"Wh—what are those?"
"Witnesses," the Groom replied.
"All brides must be watched as they walk toward the altar."
The flames hissed with soft, broken voices:
*"…turn back…"*
*"…we begged too late…"*
*"…the vow binds deeper than blood…"*
Inara covered her ears.
"Stop. STOP."
The Groom didn't touch her—yet somehow her hands gently lowered as if
guided by invisible authority.
"You waste strength resisting inevitability," he murmured.
"Save your breath for the vows."
"I'm not marrying you."
The chamber's temperature dropped ten degrees instantly.
The Groom turned his masked face toward her.
"Inara Vale," he said softly, "you gave your hand of your own will."
"That was to keep Irvine alive!"
"That was to begin the ceremony."
She recoiled.
"That's not a ceremony. That's a curse."
"Vows are binding only when both hearts tremble," he replied. "Yours did."
Her throat closed.
"I was terrified."
"As were all brides."
His voice did not rise.
He didn't need to.
Authority clung to him like a mantle woven from centuries of rituals.
He extended a hand again—not holding, not grabbing.
Just offering.
"Walk," he commanded.
Inara's legs moved before her mind permitted it.
She hated the feeling of invisible strings pulling her joints, her
breath, her pulse into alignment with the Groom's rhythm.
His march.
The Groom's March.
The bones along the tunnel shook as he walked, rattling in a slow,
rhythmic pattern.
*Clack…
Clack…
Clack…*
A wedding march for the dead.
Her feet tried to resist.
Her heartbeat didn't.
---
### ⬛ **MEANWHILE — IRVINE BLEEDS INTO THE STONE**
Irvine didn't know how long he had been on the ground.
Seconds?
Minutes?
Hours?
The chamber had no time.
Only pressure.
Pressure in his skull.
Pressure along his spine.
Pressure behind his ribs, where something ancient tried to crawl inside
and settle.
He pressed his forehead against the stone.
"Inara… don't give in… don't let him take your name…"
The walls shifted.
A whisper slithered out:
*"…she walks in white…"*
*"…she trembles…"*
*"…she will break soon…"*
Irvine slammed a fist against the stone until blood streaked his wrist.
"No. She won't. She's stronger than all of you."
The chamber answered with a low laugh—many voices, layered on top of one
another until they formed a monstrous harmony.
*"…you misunderstand devotion…"*
*"…love weakens the living…"*
*"…and strengthens the dead…"*
Irvine staggered to his feet, panting, dizzy.
"If he touches her again," he growled, "I swear I will tear this entire
village apart."
The Groom's shadow materialized behind him on the opposite wall.
Slowly, it raised a hand—
—and pressed a finger to its lips.
Silence fell so sharp it cut.
Irvine's pulse froze.
Then the shadow strode forward and placed a hand over his chest.
Agony exploded through him.
Irvine collapsed to his knees, choking on air that refused to enter his
lungs.
The shadow whispered through him, not around him:
*"…your heart beats with hers…"*
*"…and hers now marches with mine…"*
Irvine's vision blurred.
He saw two paths ahead of him—
one illuminated by the Groom's footsteps,
one flickering with Inara's fading warmth.
He chose hers.
And forced himself to stand again.
"I'm coming," he rasped. "Just hold on…"
---
### ⬛ **BACK WITH INARA — THE MARCH INTENSIFIES**
The Groom stopped abruptly.
Inara nearly ran into him.
"What—why did you—?"
He lifted one finger.
Silence answered.
Silence unlike before.
This wasn't the silence of dead air or abandoned ruins.
This was **anticipation**.
Inara felt it in her bones.
The walls leaned inward.
The flames dimmed.
Even the rattling bones above held their breath.
The Groom spoke quietly:
"They have sensed you."
"Who?" she whispered.
"The other Grooms."
Her blood froze.
"O—other…?"
He nodded once.
"Every bride has her groom.
Every groom has his claim."
His head tilted.
"Some never found their bride.
Some lost them.
Some wait still."
Her knees weakened.
"Are you saying there are more—"
A sound interrupted her.
A marching rhythm.
But not from the Groom beside her.
From deeper inside the cave.
Left…
right…
left…
right…
Dozens of steps.
Dozens of presences.
Dozens of long-dead grooms who never finished their vows.
The Groom beside her didn't look at her.
He simply said:
"Do not fall behind."
Her breath hitched.
"What happens if I do?"
He finally turned toward her.
And even through the mask, she felt the truth chill her to the marrow.
"They will claim what you dropped."
Inara stumbled back.
"S-stay away from me."
The Groom stepped closer.
"You will march beside me, Inara Vale. Because the others have already
smelled your fear."
His voice curled into her ear.
"And fear is the perfume of brides."
---
### ⬛ **THE CHASING SHADOWS**
Inara tried to run.
She truly did.
But the moment she turned, the tunnel rearranged—
bones sliding, stone reshaping—
closing paths, opening new ones that led only toward darkness.
The Groom watched her struggle with a calm bordering on fondness.
"You cannot escape the march," he murmured.
"I'm not your bride—"
"You gave your hand."
Against her will, her palm burned where his cold fingers had touched.
"That was not a vow!" she choked.
"It is when the dead accept it."
Behind her, the other footsteps drew closer.
Left…
right…
left…
right…
Dozens.
Hundreds.
A parade of forgotten grooms, marching toward the new bride.
Inara's terror spiked.
"Irvine… where are you… please—"
The Groom stepped behind her.
"Call for him if you wish."
She stiffened.
"Your voice will not reach him."
He leaned close—
her breath froze—
as he whispered:
"But mine will."
---
### ⬛ **MEANWHILE — IRVINE HEARS WHAT HE SHOULD NOT**
Irvine staggered toward the chamber door, palms pressed to the stone.
"Inara!"
Then—
A whisper seeped through the cracks.
Not hers.
Not the chamber's.
The Groom's.
*"…Bride…"*
Irvine's heart nearly stopped.
Then a second whisper followed:
*"…march…"*
His entire body shook.
He slammed both palms against the stone, screaming:
"INARA! DO NOT ANSWER HIM!"
For a moment—
a single, heart-stopping moment—
he heard her breath.
Not words.
Just the soft, sharp breath she made when she was terrified.
"Inara…" he whispered, forehead on the stone. "Don't go where he takes
you. Stay with me. Stay with us."
Silence.
Then—
A faint, trembling whisper:
*"I'm trying."*
Irvine's knees gave out.
She was still fighting.
She was still **herself**.
But the Groom's voice wrapped around her answer like a vow tightening.
And the walls whispered in unison:
*"…midnight approaches…"*
*"…the march begins…"*
*"…and the altar waits…"*
---
### ⬛ **CLIFFHANGER: THE FIRST GROOM ARRIVES**
Inara turned slowly.
A silhouette stepped out of the darkness.
Not The Groom beside her.
Another.
His veil tattered.
His uniform burned.
Half his skull missing.
Eyes hollow.
He lifted a hand toward her—
and all the flames bent in his direction as if bowing.
The Groom beside her spoke softly:
"Inara Vale…
do not fall."
She backed away—
but her heel caught the edge of a bone.
She slipped.
She fell.
And a dozen skeletal hands burst from the floor to catch her.
Not gently.
Not kindly.
Claiming.