By the time Elara returned to the manor, her resolve had calcified into something halfway between denial and spite.
She wasn't sure if she was hallucinating, dreaming, or trapped in a centuries-old haunted inheritance, but she was sure of one thing:
She wasn't marrying a ghost.
Especially not one who looked at her like she owed him blood and an apology.
The hall had changed again—of course. This time, it was narrower. The walls closer. The eyes in the paintings more judgmental. She passed a mirror and startled.
She was still wearing her torn hoodie and mismatched socks.
But in the glass?
She wore ivory silk. A veil. A black ring.
The reflection smiled.
She didn't.
---
"Elara," Balthazar called from a ledge overhead, sounding entirely too amused. "The manor's in a mood."
"Isn't it always?"
"True. But it's a romantic mood today. Dangerous. It wants you to remember."
"Remember what?"
"Your wedding day," the cat purred. "Or, as I like to call it, the start of everyone's problems."
He flicked his tail and vanished into a portrait frame.
Elara groaned. "Of course."
---
She followed the pull in her chest.
It was subtle, like being lured by gravity, or shame. One foot in front of the other. Past the doors that led to nowhere. Past the whispering curtains.
Eventually, she reached a set of grand double doors.
Dark oak. Rusted handles. Smelling faintly of ash.
They opened without her touching them.
Inside was a gallery.
And in the center, framed in gilded filigree, was the painting.
Her breath caught.
It was a portrait.
A wedding portrait.
---
She stood beside Eryx Valeblood, hands clasped, eyes soft. Her dress shimmered like starlight. He wore a coat of midnight, hair tied back with a red ribbon. There was something... intimate about the image.
She looked happy.
He looked like he was trying not to.
She stepped closer.
Painted-Elara wore a pendant—a red jewel wrapped in thorns. She touched her chest. The real one was missing.
She hadn't even realized something was gone until she saw it again.
"That's not possible," she whispered.
But her reflection in the glass didn't blink.
It smiled.
---
"You had that made," a voice said from the shadows.
Eryx stepped into the room, his boots soundless on the carpet. His presence filled the space like a pressure change.
"You said we should have something to remember. Even if it all went wrong."
Elara turned slowly. "Did it?"
He stared at the painting.
"Yes."
"Then why keep it?"
He didn't answer right away.
When he did, his voice was quieter.
"Because it was real. Even if it ended in fire."
---
They stood in silence for a moment.
Outside, thunder rolled. The house shifted, ever so slightly.
"Elara," he said carefully, "do you remember the pendant?"
She hesitated.
"Maybe."
"It was cursed."
She blinked. "That I remember."
"I warned you. Told you not to wear it on the night of the bonding."
"You dared me."
His lips quirked. "Yes. That sounds like me."
"You said it made me look like a bloodthirsty queen."
"It did."
"And I liked that."
"You loved it," he said softly. "You said if the world was going to burn, you'd rather do it in silk and rubies."
---
She turned away, throat tight.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because the house is waking up," he said. "It remembers you. It remembers us. And whether you want to or not, you're going to remember everything soon. The good. The awful. The reason you ran."
"I didn't run."
"You did."
"I died."
He looked at her like he wanted to reach out.
But didn't dare.
"Yes," he said. "And you took me with you."
---
Lightning split the sky.
Somewhere in the manor, glass shattered.
The house moaned.
Not like wood creaking, but like something alive in pain.
Elara grabbed the frame of the portrait to steady herself. Her fingertips brushed something cold behind the canvas. A latch?
Curious, she pressed it.
A section of the wall clicked and swung open.
Behind the painting was a hidden alcove.
Inside: A shattered mirror. A diary. A ring box.
And a single black feather.
---
Eryx swore under his breath. "It's starting already."
"What is?"
"The house is unlocking itself for you. Offering you pieces of your past."
She knelt and picked up the diary. The leather was cracked with age. Her name was written on the cover—Elara Valeblood.
She didn't remember writing it.
But her hands shook as if they did.
She opened it.
The first page read:
> "If he kills me again, I hope it sticks this time."
She stared.
"…Wow."
Eryx sighed. "We were going through a rough patch."
"You stabbed me."
"You stabbed me first!"
"With a letter opener!"
"It was silver!"
"You were being dramatic!"
"You lit the drawing room on fire!"
"You cheated on me with a banshee!"
"She wasn't technically a banshee—"
"Eryx!"
---
Balthazar reappeared, tail twitching. "Ah, the happy couple. Just as I remember them. Arguing over arson and adultery."
"We were married?" Elara asked.
"Briefly. Tragically. Twice."
"Twice?"
"One time was annulled by a priest who was later devoured by the manor. The other ended in mutual homicide."
She closed the diary and muttered, "Romance is dead."
Eryx grinned. "Not quite."
She shot him a look. "I will re-dead you."
"I'd rather you remembered why you loved me first."
"And I'd rather not."
---
The house groaned again, louder this time.
The lights dimmed. Wind howled through the cracks.
Paintings screamed.
Literally.
Balthazar's fur fluffed. "Oh no. She's coming."
"Who?"
Eryx's smile vanished.
"Elara's first self," he said grimly. "The original bride. The one that never died."