The air is heavy with the scent of fire, wine, and old magic. Shadows pool along the walls, and everyone wears a mask. Everyone except us.
I am the bride. He’s my husband.
He was meant to be the light of my life, in some kinder version of destiny—but here, he’s a streak of sunshine caught in storm clouds.
Mabel stands before us, her mask wrought from raven feathers so dark they drink the light in. When she clears her throat, the sound carries too far, too cleanly.
“Words can be spoken in vain, so actions must always follow promises,” she says. “The union of your bodies will ensure the gods of your commitment to each other. May their blessing seal your marriage forever,” she says.
The silk curtains stir, breathing around the bed.
“For better or worse,” she adds ominously, as though better is a pipe dream, and the worse has already happened.
She brushes the long black feathers of her masquerade mask. Up close, her white hair gleams like frost, and my husband’s hand closes gently around her frail arm.
I can't see his face clearly but I know who he is—the man I drew the night I first met E. The man from the cliffs. His face is lost in golden light, his features erased as if seeing him might blind me.
Mabel wrings her hands together. “I will say this to you, just as I’ve said it to all the young people I’ve married. Marriage is a long, permanent affair for us Fae. Until death can’t be cheated by waning affections or grander passions, for your magics will be irrevocably linked. This is your last chance to turn back.”
My stomach knots. “Do people actually change their minds at the last minute?” I ask.
“More than you’d think.”
The answer lands like a warning.
My husband’s hand finds mine. Warm. Steady. Certain in a way that terrifies me.
I tighten my grip, as if confidence might come from the pressure alone. “We’re ready, I think.”
Mabel nods.
“Then with your kindreds as witnesses, you will now share blood and magic, just as the gods intended.”
The last veil between us and ruin parts. We move through its diaphanous seams, the world narrowing until there is onlyhim and me. The marital bed waits at the center of the ballroom—white sheets, dark wood, a place where vows turn to flesh.
This is where I’m meant to lie down.
This is where I’m meant to bare myself.
This is where something irrevocable happens.
He tips my chin up, and when he bends to kiss me, it’s nothing like the careful, ceremonial peck we shared on the altar. This one burns. Claims. My breath catches, my body answering before my thoughts can catch up.
The crowd roars in response. His hands work with practiced ease, loosening knots, guiding me forward.
I realize—deep in the dream, with a clarity that hurts—that he never wanted this. That I am not the one he chose. That he’s not the one for me. That this sham of a wedding should not be happening.
Yet he leads me there anyway.
He towers over me as I sink onto the mattress, the golden light around his face intensifying until it hurts too much to keep my eyes open.
He leans closer, his voice meant only for me. “It should have been you, Max. You’re the one.”
The weight of him descends, driven not by desire, but inevitability. He doesn’t ask for permission, and the air leaves my lungs. The room tilts. I try to breathe, my throat closing as if destiny itself is pressing me into the mattress. Into this sharp pain between my legs. This trickle of blood. This moment of infamy.
The weight never lifts.
The layers of silk thin, revealing the smiles and cheers of people who don’t know the real me. Even as my new husband erases them from my vision, I know that this is the wrong life, the wrong body, the wrong man. That I am making a choice that will echo far beyond this room, far beyond this night.
