The reflection shimmered, then solidified. Me, in a dress made of nightmares. Him, the impossible man, behind me, not with hands, but with a scythe. The truth of the pact. Soulbound Matrimony. My brain screamed. My stomach, bless its consistent nature, just felt empty. But the hunger was now a dull ache compared to the gaping void of horror that just opened up inside me.
I stumbled back from the mirror, nearly tripping over my own feet. This couldn't be real. A smoky bridal gown? A scythe? This was some kind of elaborate, incredibly messed-up prank. Or I was still passed out on the street, having the worst stress-induced fever dream in history.
But the black ring on my finger felt terrifyingly solid. The cold emanating from it seemed to anchor me to this impossible reality. And the man with the void eyes, the one who called himself my husband – my wife, technically, which just added another layer of absurdity to the cosmic horror – was still standing there, watching me with that unnerving calm.
"No," I whispered, shaking my head. "No, no, no. This isn't funny. This is… you're not… that's not real!" I pointed a trembling finger at him, then at the mirror.
He didn't move. "It is as real as the air you breathe, Sera Quinn. Perhaps more so, in this place."
This place. The In-Between. The whispers. The cold. The man who casually mentioned unbreakable bindings and matrimony. And now, the visual confirmation from the mirror. It hit me like a physical blow.
Panic, raw and visceral, surged through me. I had to get out. Now. This wasn't a weird modeling gig. This was… something else entirely. Something ancient and terrifying.
Without a second thought, I turned and bolted. The room was huge, but I could see a set of massive double doors on the opposite side. They looked like they led somewhere. Anywhere but here.
My combat boots pounded on the polished stone floor, the sound echoing strangely in the vast space. The whispers seemed to rise, following me, a murmuring chorus of disapproval. The cold bit at my exposed skin.
I reached the doors, fumbling for the handles. They were made of heavy, dark metal, cold and intricately carved with symbols that seemed to writhe in my peripheral vision. I pushed. Hard.
They didn't budge. Locked. Of course they were locked. Nothing was easy in this nightmare mansion.
Okay. Other options. Windows? I spun around, looking for another way out. There were more tall, arched windows lining the walls. I ran to the nearest one, pushing aside the heavy drapery.
The view outside wasn't a street, or a garden, or anything recognizable. It was… a battlefield. Men in old-fashioned armor clashing, dust and blood staining the ground. It was vivid, detailed, like looking through a perfectly clear pane of glass into history.
I gasped and stumbled back. Another window showed a bustling marketplace from what looked like medieval times. Another showed a desolate, futuristic cityscape shrouded in toxic fog. Each window offered a glimpse into a different era, a different world. None of them were my world. None of them offered escape.
My heart was a frantic bird in my chest, beating against its cage. I was trapped. In a gothic mansion, in a place called The In-Between, with a man who had scythes in mirrors and called me his wife.
I ran down a hallway leading away from the ballroom. It was long, lined with more dark doors and portraits whose eyes seemed to follow me. The whispers were louder here, closer. They slithered around me like unseen things.
Bound… forever…
His bride…
No escape…
"Shut up!" I yelled, my voice cracking. The whispers didn't stop. They just seemed to ripple with amusement.
I tried doors. Some were locked. Some opened into empty rooms filled with dusty sheets. Some opened into what looked like closets but had no back wall, just swirling darkness. I slammed them shut, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I found a staircase, grand and sweeping, leading both up and down into shadow. I chose down. Anywhere had to be better than here.
The lower levels were colder, the whispers thicker. I found what looked like a library. Walls lined with towering bookshelves, filled not with normal books, but with massive, leather-bound tomes that seemed to pulse with a faint, dark light. This felt important. This felt like where I might find answers.
My fingers, still adorned with the horrible black ring, traced the spines of the tomes. They were titled in languages I couldn't read, etched in symbols that reminded me of the contract I'd signed. Then I saw one. Larger than the others, resting on a pedestal in the center of the room. It was open.
Drawn by some morbid fascination, I approached it. The pages were made of the same dark, light-absorbing parchment as the contract Lucien had given me. The air around it hummed, a low, resonant vibration that felt both powerful and deeply wrong.
The open page was titled in bold, sweeping script that glowed faintly: THE PACT.
Beneath that, in smaller script that still managed to feel monumental, was the subheading: Soulbound Matrimony: Bride of Death.
My breath hitched. Bride. Of. Death.
My eyes scanned the page, the strange symbols swirling, but my gaze locked onto something else. At the bottom, on a line that seemed to pulse brighter than the rest… was my signature. Sera Quinn. Written in the same inky black 'blood' that had appeared on the parchment on the street. It glowed with an eerie, internal light.
My signature. Under a heading that said 'Bride of Death.'
Rage, hot and blinding, exploded inside me, burning away the fear and the confusion. That bastard! Lucien! He hadn't just omitted details. He had actively lied! He hadn't offered me a modeling contract. He had tricked me into… this.
Soulbound Matrimony. Bride of Death. It was all laid out, stark and undeniable. This wasn't an agency. This wasn't a gig. I had signed myself over. To Death.
"You!" I screamed, spinning around, expecting the man with the void eyes to be there. The library was empty. But the air crackled with his presence. He was close.
"You lied to me!" I yelled into the empty space, my voice echoing off the silent tomes. "That wasn't a modeling contract! That was… this! This is insane! You're insane!"
A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness near the entrance of the library. The man stepped out, calm and composed, his black clothes blending seamlessly with the shadows. His starless eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something in them. Not amusement, not coldness, but… ancient patience.
"I did not lie," he said, his voice level. "Lucien merely… facilitated the agreement. The terms were present."
"Present?!" I shrieked, gesturing wildly at the open tome. "'Bride of Death' was 'present'?! Underneath all those squiggly symbols?!"
He inclined his head slightly. "The language of the Pact predates your current understanding. But the intent was clear to the contractor."
"The intent?" I was trembling now, not from cold, but from sheer fury. "Your intent was to trick a broke, hangry human into marrying you?! The actual, literal Death?! For eternal exposure that means being trapped in your creepy mansion?!"
He walked towards the tome, his steps silent on the stone floor. He stopped beside it, his hand, the one from the mirror that wasn't holding a scythe right now, resting on the page with my glowing signature.
"I am indeed who you claim," he stated, his voice low and steady, a profound truth in the whispering silence. "And you, Sera Quinn, by your own hand, are my bride. The contract is absolute."
Bride of Death. The words hung in the air, heavy and final. It wasn't just a title on a page. It was my reality. The man in front of me, the one with the void eyes and the scent of rain and metal, was Death. And I had married him. Accidentally. Because I really, really wanted fries.
The absurdity would have been hilarious if it wasn't so utterly terrifying. My life had officially reached peak 'What the hell is even happening?'
"You can't just… do this!" I sputtered, my mind scrambling for any loophole, any argument. "You can't just trick people into marrying you! That's… that's kidnapping! That's not legal! Even in the In-Between, surely that's not legal!"
He looked at me, and a faint, sad expression touched his lips before it vanished. "Laws, as you understand them, have little meaning here. The Pact is the law. And you signed it."
"But I didn't know what I was signing!"
"Ignorance of the terms does not invalidate the contract," he replied, his tone resonating with ancient authority.
It was hopeless. I looked at him, at the glowing signature, at the overwhelming reality of where I was and who he was. Betrayal, cold and sharp, twisted in my gut. Lucien, that slick, silver-eyed liar. He knew. He knew exactly what he was doing.
My gaze snapped to the doors of the library. Maybe there was another way out. A different exit from this floor.
Ignoring him, ignoring the whispers, ignoring the sickening dread, I turned and ran. Back through the library entrance, into the cold, echoing hallway. I needed to find a way out. I didn't belong here. I belonged in my slightly-too-colorful apartment, worrying about rent and whether my cat-eye liner was straight.
I sprinted down the hallway, looking left and right for another door, a window, anything. The whispers rose to a crescendo, swirling around me, a mocking, knowing sound.
Run, little bride…
Nowhere to go…
His…
I reached the end of the hallway, finding myself back at the base of the grand staircase. No exit. Just the stairs leading up into the darkness, and down into the depths of this endless, impossible mansion.
Defeated, my shoulders slumping, I sank to my knees. There was no way out.
A shadow fell over me. I looked up. He was standing there, at the top of the stairs, looking down at me with those profound, empty eyes.
He didn't need to say anything. The air grew heavier, colder.
And then, with a deafening boom that shook the very foundations of the mansion, the massive double doors back in the ballroom, the ones I had tried to open, slammed shut. The sound echoed through the silent halls, a final, absolute punctuation mark on my escape attempt.
He descended the stairs slowly, silently, until he stood directly before me. He knelt, bringing his face level with mine. His expression was unreadable, but the intensity in his gaze was overwhelming.
"You may not leave," he said softly, his voice a low, final pronouncement that settled over me like a shroud.
He reached out, his pale fingers brushing against my cheek. The touch was cold, like polished stone.
"You belong to me now."