THE ONLY BRIDE'S GRAVE.
The east wing was colder.
Not just in temperature — in memory.
The kind of cold that lived in bones, in mirrors, in names forgotten for too long.
Zina stepped across the threshold.
The hallway narrowed. The walls closed in. And the shadows weren't silent anymore — they whispered.
Not in words.
In grief.
She passed portraits of women — beautiful, mournful, and cracked through the canvas. Someone had clawed at their faces. Some had no eyes. Others, no mouths.
A shudder rippled through her.
But she didn't stop.
At the end of the hall, a door waited.
Wooden. Weathered. Splintering with age.
Carved into its surface was a sigil—her sigil—but surrounded by twelve others, circling it like a cage.
She pressed her hand to it.
The door opened.
Inside was a chapel.
Or what remained of one.
A long aisle of rotting carpet. Pews warped with moisture. Candles lit by no fire Zina could see.
And at the front—
Thirteen veiled figures.
All brides.
Still. Silent.
Waiting.
Zina's breath caught.
They didn't move. They didn't speak. But every one of them turned their head when she entered.
The room didn't smell like dust or decay.
It smelled like endings.
The thirteenth bride — the one in the center — raised her hand.
And pointed to a stone slab at the base of the altar.
Zina stepped forward, slowly.
Carved into the stone were words in fading gold:
> HERE LIES THE FIRST BRIDE.
SHE LOVED TOO LOUD.
SHE HOPED TOO MUCH.
SHE WAS CONSUMED.
Zina dropped to her knees.
This wasn't a chapel.
It was a graveyard.
And the brides…
They weren't just victims.
They were witnesses.
One of them moved.
A twitch of fingers. A breath drawn after centuries.
Then another.
And another.
They circled her.
Hands outstretched.
Not to hurt her.
To show her.
Each placed a palm against her skin.
Her shoulders. Her back. Her chest.
And each left behind a burning mark—a fragment of memory.
Zina gasped as they poured into her.
Not words.
Not visions.
Feelings.
Pain like betrayal.
Love turned to ash.
Hope shattered under ritual.
A wedding turned into sacrifice.
Thirteen stories buried in silence.
She saw the first bride — a poet from Kano.
The second — a widow from Abeokuta.
The sixth — a girl no older than sixteen.
Each had come to the house thinking it would save them.
Each had been devoured by it.
Zina stumbled back, tears streaming.
"What do you want from me?" she whispered.
The thirteenth bride stepped forward.
She lifted her veil.
And Zina gasped.
It was her own face.
Paler. Faded. Lips stitched in silence.
The bride leaned in close and whispered without sound:
> "Break the pattern."
> "Unmake the name."
> "Free us."
Zina's sigil flared with unbearable heat.
The third ring completed.
The contract in her hand burst into black flame and disintegrated.
The chapel groaned.
The floor split.
And from the broken stone rose a single black flower.
A rose made of shadow.
Zina reached for it—unthinking.
Her fingers closed around the stem.
It didn't cut.
It accepted her.
And the voices of the brides finally spoke, all at once:
> "He is not your master."
> "He is your mirror."
> "Make him remember."
Zina stood, trembling, rose in hand.
The brides vanished.
The light went out.
And she knew what she had to do.