The skeletal hands dragged Inara downward.
Not violently—
not yet—
but with purpose, like pallbearers carrying a bride to the wrong altar.
Her arms flailed, catching only air.
"No—NO—let me go—!"
The Groom did not stop them.
He merely watched.
His veil shifted with an invisible wind, his towering silhouette framed
by flames that bent toward him as if in worship.
"Inara Vale," he said calmly,
"stop fighting. They respond to fear."
"Then tell them to let me go!"
"You are falling because you believe you can."
Her nails scraped bone, slipping.
"I don't *believe*—I'm—AH—!"
Her body slammed onto a floor of cold stone.
The skeletal hands released her instantly,
vanishing into cracks as if melting back into the architecture.
Silence.
Then, softly—
the Groom stepped toward her.
The flames leaned with him.
"Stand," he murmured.
"I'm not obeying your—" She tried to rise, but her wedding dress—
beautiful hours ago—snagged under a rib of stone.
She yanked it.
It didn't budge.
The corseted waist trapped her breaths.
The layered skirt tangled around her ankles like binding cloth.
The dress was becoming a coffin.
She tugged again, harder—
and the tearing sound cut through the chamber like a scream.
White satin ripping.
The Groom tilted his head, curious.
"You damage the garment meant for the vow?"
"It's *my* dress," she hissed.
She pulled harder, ripping free another long ribbon of fabric.
The Groom watched with unnatural stillness.
One step.
Another.
Until he towered just above her.
"When brides run," he murmured, "they always ruin the gown."
"I'm not running from the wedding," she spat. "I'm running from you."
His veil drifted close enough to brush her cheek.
"And yet you tear the dress," he whispered,
"as if preparing for a different kind of ceremony."
Ice crawled across her spine.
"Stay away from me."
But he didn't move.
He didn't need to.
His presence alone pressed into her lungs,
shaping her panic until it felt almost orchestrated.
Inara grabbed the hem of her dress,
both hands trembling as she pulled the long skirt toward her chest.
Her breath hitched.
For a moment, she hesitated.
Because she remembered choosing this dress.
She remembered smiling at herself in the mirror.
She remembered Irvine saying—
*"I love you in anything, but I love you most when you're happy."*
Tears stung her eyes.
Then she ripped the skirt straight up the seam.
The tearing echoed through the chamber—
a clean, harsh, irreversible sound.
Fabric separated in her hands like skin splitting along a scar.
The Groom stared at her without blinking.
"You choose survival," he murmured,
voice impossibly soft.
"I choose *Irvine*."
"And you think he will reach you?"
"He promised."
"Promises," he said, stepping closer,
"are the most fragile part of the living."
She glared at him, breath shaking.
"Then it's a good thing he's stubborn."
---
### ⬛ **MEANWHILE — IRVINE FEELS EVERYTHING**
Irvine staggered forward as a tearing pain ripped across his thigh—
the same place Inara had cut her dress.
It wasn't physical.
It was the vow.
Her act of defiance stabbed through their bond like a sharp, bright shock.
He gasped, gripping the wall.
"Inara—God—what did you—"
Then came the second pulse—
her resolve.
It hit him harder than any wound.
His chest seized.
His vision blurred.
Not from pain.
From **love**.
She was still fighting.
Still choosing him.
Still tethered to him despite the Groom.
He pressed his forehead to the stone.
"Hold on," he whispered. "Hold on to that. I'm coming—just stay—"
But a shadow moved behind him—
the Groom's silhouette stretching along the floor like a long, black tendril.
The shadow's hand pressed over his heart.
A cold voice whispered inside his ribs:
*"…she walks closer to the altar…"*
Irvine's pulse stopped for a full beat.
Then another.
He collapsed to his knees, choking.
"No—NO—she's not accepting him—she's not—"
The whisper deepened:
*"…she tears the dress…
brides do that only before surrender…"*
Irvine roared,
slamming his fists into the floor.
"YOU DON'T KNOW HER."
The chamber laughed.
Dozens of voices.
Hundreds.
---
### ⬛ **BACK WITH INARA — THE SURVIVOR IS BORN**
The torn skirt now hung jagged around Inara's thighs.
Her legs breathed again.
She could run.
She could fight.
She could survive.
She tore off the ribboned train next,
then ripped the lace sleeves that restricted her shoulders.
Pieces of her dream wedding dress—
the one meant for sunlight and love—
fell to the stone like snow.
The Groom watched as if witnessing a sacred ritual.
"You embrace the role," he murmured.
"What role?"
"The hunted bride," he said simply.
"All who came before you learned the same truth—
beauty must break before it can bleed for the altar."
She swallowed bile.
"Then you'll see how strong a broken bride can be."
The Groom's veil shifted as though he smiled.
"The march continues."
He raised one pale hand—
and the skeletons embedded in the walls
opened their mouths.
A low, rhythmic chant trembled through the chamber:
*"…the bride ascends…"*
*"…the vow deepens…"*
*"…midnight approaches…"*
Inara backed away,
her fingers brushing spilled bone fragments on the floor.
Weapons.
Improvised—
but weapons.
She grabbed a long splinter of rib bone,
sharpened by time into a pale blade.
The Groom regarded her.
"You think the dead fear broken bone?"
"No," she whispered.
"But they fear a bride who fights."
---
### ⬛ **THE ESCALATION BEGINS**
The Groom lowered his veil slightly—
not revealing his face—
but revealing intention.
"Walk, Inara Vale."
"No."
He stepped closer.
The flames bent toward him.
The bones rattled.
The chamber darkened.
"Walk," he repeated.
Her grip tightened on the bone shard.
"If you want me," she whispered,
"you'll have to drag me."
The chamber inhaled.
The Groom's shadow lengthened behind him—
extending toward her feet like a black river.
She stepped back.
His voice dropped to a whisper colder than winter:
"Then I shall."
He snapped his fingers once.
The bone-floor beneath her *shifted*—
and skeletal arms erupted from the ground,
grabbing her ankles, her wrists, her waist.
She screamed,
slashing at them with the bone shard—
CRACK.
A wrist broke.
A skull shattered.
But more emerged.
More hands.
More arms.
More grasping fingers.
The Groom approached slowly, patiently,
as if witnessing an inevitable moment.
"You tear your dress," he murmured,
"but the vow does not tear with it."
Her breath trembled.
"I'm not your bride."
"You are," he said softly, almost gently,
"the moment you feared losing him."
He extended one hand.
"Rise, Inara Vale."
She shook her head violently.
"No. I rise only for Irvine."
The Groom's voice softened in a way that terrified her more than rage:
"And yet,"
he whispered,
"you rise still in my presence."
The chamber pulsed.
The skeletal hands tightened.
And as her scream echoed through the altar tunnels—
Irvine, miles away, felt it.
He collapsed to the ground, tearing at the stone.
"Inara—
I'm coming—
I swear—
I'M COMING—"
But the Groom's shadow whispered:
*"…she won't remember you at the altar…"*
Irvine slammed his head against the wall.
"YES. SHE. WILL."
---
### ⬛ **CLIFFHANGER: THE GROOM CLAIMS THE FIRST STEP**
The skeletal hands lifted Inara upright—
not gently—
but reverently.
As though preparing her for the next stage of the ritual.
The Groom stepped close enough that his veil brushed her cheek.
She froze.
He whispered:
"Bride…
you march with me now."
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
As he reached his hand toward her neck—
the bone shard slipped from her fingers
and clattered loudly against the stone.