The nightmares started again.
Only they weren't dreams anymore.
Eliana didn't wake up sweating and confused. She woke up with blood on her hands—real blood—and a lock of blonde hair curled in her palm.
She screamed.
Adrien burst in, gun drawn, wild-eyed. "What happened?!"
She held up her trembling hand.
He stared at it. "Is that—Clara's?"
But Clara was gone.
When they rushed to the guest room, it was empty. No signs of struggle. Just a single line scratched into the floorboard beneath the bed:
"She walks the halls at midnight."
Eliana turned to Adrien, breath heaving. "Who is she?"
His silence was answer enough.
"Tell me the truth," she demanded.
Adrien hesitated. Then, quietly, "They call her The First Bride."
—
That night, Eliana demanded to see the forbidden room.
"The sealed chamber at the base of the staircase," she said. "I want it open."
Celeste narrowed her eyes. "That room has been closed for twenty years."
"And yet the screams still come from it," Eliana replied. "Why?"
"Because some doors aren't meant to open."
Adrien stepped beside her. "She deserves to know."
Celeste's jaw twitched. "And when she knows, will she still stay? Or will she run like the others did?"
"I'm not like the others," Eliana said coldly. "You made sure of that when you forced me into this family."
With a bitter smile, Celeste unlocked the chamber.
—
The smell hit her first—earth, rot, and something else. Like dead flowers.
The stairs creaked underfoot as Eliana descended into the dark.
A single candle flickered near the bottom, illuminating stone walls and… photographs.
Hundreds of them.
All of brides.
Dozens of women in ivory gowns, standing beside grim-faced men. None of them looked happy. All of them looked… resigned.
And in the center of it all: a mural. Painted on the wall. Half-faded but unmistakable.
Eliana gasped.
It was her.
Painted in a wedding dress, crimson-eyed and silent-mouthed. Beside Adrien, who looked the same age he was now.
Only the date carved beneath said:
1842.
Adrien looked at her.
"I tried to hide it," he whispered. "But I've known since I saw you. You're her. The one I've married in every life. The one they keep taking from me."
Eliana backed away. "That's not possible."
"They found a way to reset the vows. Every time we defy the pact, time folds. Our lives restart. But something always leaks through. A memory. A face."
Eliana trembled. "And the others? The brides?"
"Failures. Each time the pact resets, they bring in new women, hoping one will forget enough to break the curse."
She pointed to her image on the wall. "Why me? Why always me?"
"Because you loved me even after remembering."
Suddenly, a shrill, sharp sound echoed through the room.
A crack in the wall.
Then a whisper.
"Eliana…"
It came from inside the mural.
She stumbled backward, clutching her head. Visions surged—rivers of blood, a wedding altar burned to ash, a child screaming as she was dragged into the woods.
Her.
It was always her.
Adrien caught her before she fell.
She blinked up at him, voice barely a whisper. "How many times have I died?"
His voice cracked. "Sixteen."
Tears welled in her eyes.
"Then this time," she said, "we end it."
—
Later that night, Eliana stood alone in the west wing.
She found an old wardrobe sealed behind wallpaper. She smashed it open.
Inside was a corpse.
Wearing her wedding gown.
The same one she wore the day she married Adrien.
But it wasn't her body.
It was another her.
Same eyes. Same hair. Same scar on the collarbone.
And a locket in her hand, engraved with the words:
"When you forget, I will find you."
Eliana collapsed to her knees, everything spinning.
She wasn't the first. She wouldn't be the last.
Unless she found the one who wrote the pact.
Unless she burned it all down.