The gown in the bride's arms was flawless—ivory lace, stitched with silver thread, its train trailing like mist. It looked weightless, as if it floated in her hands. But to Amira, it felt like lead. A sentence disguised as beauty.
"I'm not wearing that," Amira said, her voice shaking.
The bride stepped forward. The gown shimmered, catching the flickering underground light like silk soaked in moonlight.
Amira backed away until her heels hit the edge of the pool. Her eyes darted around the chamber. No exits. No doors. Just the dome, the water, the bride—and the impossible hush, like the air was waiting to see what she'd do next.
"I'm not one of you," Amira whispered. "You can't make me."
The bride tilted her head. Her eyes flickered—grief, rage, memory? Something unreadable passed through them.
Then, she dropped the gown.
The splash of fabric against stone echoed like thunder.
And suddenly the walls began to shift.
The engraved names writhed, twisting into new forms, letters bleeding like ink in water. One of them reformed itself before Amira's eyes: A.O.—her initials.
"No," she whispered. "No, no, no."
A ring slid from the water's edge and landed near her feet. Silver, delicate, engraved with the same crest she'd seen in the silverware. The crest with two rings intertwined.
The same one from the portraits.
"Stop this," she shouted. "I'm not part of this story!"
A second voice joined the chamber—deep, rough. Darius.
"She's not ready!" he yelled from somewhere above. "Let her go!"
A trapdoor in the dome ceiling burst open, and a rope ladder unfurled, slapping the stone with urgency.
The bride turned slowly toward the light, veil shivering as if caught in wind no one else could feel.
Amira didn't hesitate.
She ran, grabbed the ladder, and climbed. Her lungs burned, her hands scraped raw by the rope, but she didn't look down—not even when the whispers rose behind her like a rising tide.
"Amira…"
They called her name.
They called her back.
But she reached the top, pulled herself up onto the wooden floor of an attic chamber, gasping.
Darius was there, lantern in one hand, his other extended toward her.
She collapsed into his arms.
"Where... where are we?" she panted.
He slammed the trapdoor shut and threw three iron locks across it.
"Sanctuary," he said.
She looked around.
Dusty mirrors. Bookshelves. Old photography equipment. Broken typewriters. And a wall covered in photos—black and white, sepia-toned, Polaroids.
All of women.
All in bridal gowns.
Some were smiling.
Most weren't.
She moved closer.
Her knees buckled when she found the latest addition: a photo of herself, taken from above, while she lay sleeping in her room. The same photo that had never been on her camera.
Her image.
Already part of the collection.
"How do I stop this?" she asked. "How do I leave?"
Darius looked down, ashamed.
"There's no leaving."
"Then why save me?"
"Because you're the first one who's ever run."