The world did not settle when the corridor shut behind them.
It shifted.
Breathed.
Bent inward like a lung filling with cold air.
Inara stumbled forward as the blinding light dimmed, revealing a narrow tunnel carved from uneven bunker walls. The ground trembled under their feet—as if the village was adjusting its posture… preparing for something.
Irvine steadied her with one hand and raised the lantern with the other.
The flame flickered.
Not from wind.
From fear.
"Inara," he whispered, "stay right behind me. Don't let go. No matter what you hear."
She swallowed, her throat tight.
"Are you feeling it too? The… pressure?"
He hesitated.
Then nodded once.
But Inara could see more than hesitation.
His pupils were wide, almost too dark.
His breath short and uneven.
His fingers trembling.
He was fighting something she couldn't see.
Something inside him.
The corridor stretched ahead like a throat leading deeper into the body of the cursed village. The walls pulsed faintly—each beat followed by a low echo bouncing through the bunker.
Like a heartbeat.
No—
like many heartbeats.
Irvine placed a hand on the wall.
It pulsed under his palm.
He pulled back sharply, breathing hard.
"It's… recognizing us."
"What does that mean?"
He didn't answer.
The lantern flame expanded suddenly, casting large shadows that crawled along the walls. Inara squeezed his arm, whispering:
"Irvine… something's moving in the shadows."
"I know."
His voice was strained.
He tightened his grip on the lantern.
Then they heard it.
A whispering chorus—soft, layered, echoing—coming from ahead, behind, beside them, everywhere:
"Briiide…
Groom…
Return…"
Inara's blood ran cold.
Voices of dozens.
Hundreds.
Maybe all the people who had disappeared in this place.
"Irvine," she whispered, "they're calling us."
He gritted his teeth. "They're calling roles. Not names. Don't answer. Just walk."
They moved forward slowly.
But with every step, the walls shifted.
Sometimes expanding.
Sometimes narrowing.
Sometimes reshaping into new corridors entirely.
Irvine would blink once—
and the path perfectly straight before them
would suddenly bend or fork or warp.
Inara saw it.
She saw the world pulse *with* Irvine.
As if his presence… controlled it.
"Irvine," she said quietly, "this place is listening to you."
He stiffened.
"That's not possible."
"But it is."
She stepped in front of him gently, forcing him to look at her.
His eyes were darker.
Like shadows pooled behind the irises.
"Inara," he said, shaky. "The closer we get to the altar, the more I feel—like something is taking the shape of my thoughts."
"You're not him," she whispered, touching his cheek. "You're not The Groom."
His breath shuddered.
But his voice cracked:
"Then why do I remember the way he died?"
Inara froze.
"What… what did you say?"
Irvine pressed a hand against his forehead, groaning softly.
Images flickered in his eyes—like memories he had never lived.
"There was fire…" he whispered.
"Smoke… screaming…
He tried to marry her in the flames…
The war broke through the gates…
They dragged him away—"
"Irvine—stop—"
"He cut the ropes. He ran back to her.
But she was already burning—"
"Irvine, STOP!"
She grabbed him, shaking him.
His breath snapped back to normal.
He blinked hard, confused and terrified.
"Inara… why do I know that? Why do I see it?"
She cupped his face, steadying him.
"It's not your memory. It's the ritual's. It's forcing his past into you because you're the only living replacement he can anchor to. Fight it. Please."
He nodded weakly.
But the voices in the walls intensified.
"Groo—om…"
"Re—tuurn…"
"Braaaide…"
"Midniiight…"
Irvine tugged her forward.
"We have to hurry. The altar is close. I can feel it."
"Feel it how?"
He didn't answer.
Because he couldn't.
The corridor widened into a massive underground chamber.
The lantern light stretched up—revealing something carved into the ceiling:
Human silhouettes.
Hundreds of them.
Bodies pressed into the stone like fossilized shadows—
faces frozen in horror—
arms reaching down toward the center of the chamber…
Toward the raised platform below.
The Altar.
Inara's breath hitched.
"Irvine… this is where they—"
"Don't look at the ceiling."
He stepped ahead of her, leading her across the chamber.
But the shadows of the silhouettes above crawled down the walls—like long, stretched arms reaching for them.
Inara kept her eyes forward, repeating silently:
Don't look.
Don't breathe too loud.
Stay with him.
But Irvine slowed.
He stared at the altar.
Something about it pulled him.
"Inara…" he whispered, voice hollow, distant.
"I know this place."
Her heart dropped.
Not again.
Not now.
She grabbed his wrist hard.
"You do NOT know it. Irvine, look at me."
He turned his head.
But his eyes were wrong again.
Black-ringed.
Dilated.
Reflecting fire that wasn't there.
"I remember walking down those steps," he murmured.
"I remember knelt brides. I remember—"
A sharp crack echoed through the chamber.
Then another.
Footsteps.
Not dragging.
Not crawling.
Walking.
Calm.
Measured.
Confident.
The Groom.
Inara's pulse spiked.
Irvine grabbed her, pushing her behind him.
Something in him snapped awake—instinct, fury, protection.
"Inara."
His voice was low, deep.
"If I lose myself… if I stop answering to my name… you run. You don't wait."
She shook her head violently. "I'm not leaving you."
"You MUST."
"I won't."
"You WILL."
The footsteps grew louder.
Closer.
The lantern went out.
Darkness swallowed the chamber whole.
Stone shook as the Groom entered—
and the altar's carved faces began to *move*.
Irvine inhaled shakily.
"Inara," he whispered, "stay behind me.
No matter what you hear.
No matter what I become."
She gripped his back, refusing to let go.
In the suffocating dark,
a voice spoke inches from them:
"Grooom…"
But this time—
it came from Irvine's own throat.