Zina returned to her room, the black rose still in her hand.
It hadn't wilted.
Hadn't faded.
It pulsed with a life that felt older than the house itself.
When she placed it on her bedside table, the air shifted—like the house exhaled in recognition.
The silence broke.
Kain appeared.
Not in the doorway this time.
Not from shadow.
He simply was—as though he'd been standing there all along, watching her come undone.
"You went to the east wing."
Zina turned slowly, eyes clear. No fear this time.
"Yes."
"You weren't supposed to."
"You weren't supposed to lie."
His jaw tightened.
For a moment, the illusion of elegance cracked.
The silver in his eyes flickered—smoke behind glass. His cloak didn't ripple; it writhed. Like it had a mind of its own.
"You saw them," he said.
"The brides? Yes."
"And the grave?"
"I did more than see it."
Zina stepped forward, sigil glowing. The third ring complete. Her skin warm with the memory of thirteen women who had once stood where she now stood—full of fear, full of hope, all silenced.
"I heard them," she said.
"I carry them now."
Kain didn't move. But the room darkened. The mirror in the corner hummed under its cloth.
"You don't understand what you're doing."
"Maybe not," Zina said. "But I understand you now."
She held out her palm.
"Three rings. That's your mark, right? Bride. Vessel. Voice."
She paused.
"But what happens when the voice refuses to echo you?"
Kain's expression shifted.
Not to rage.
To sorrow.
"You think I chose this?" he asked.
Zina blinked. "What?"
"You think I wanted to be the thing they fed offerings to? The name whispered like a curse?"
He stepped into the light—and for the first time, she saw him fully.
No glamour.
No shadow.
No king.
Just a man.
A man bound in sigils that crawled across his skin like chains. His eyes dimmed, no longer silver—now gray. Human. Haunted.
"I was the first," he whispered.
Zina's breath caught.
"The first bride?" she asked.
He shook his head. "The first offering. The first vessel. The thirteenth son of the house. Born under blood moon, marked from birth."
Zina stepped closer, voice gentler. "Then why repeat it?"
"Because the house feeds. And if I do not bring the brides—it devours the world outside. Cities. Villages. Dreams."
He looked at her, hollow.
"I kept it contained. Kept it here."
Zina's heart thudded.
"You've been sacrificing women… to save the rest of us?"
He didn't nod. He didn't need to.
"But that's not saving," she whispered. "It's trading one life for another."
His voice cracked. "It's the only thing I had left."
Zina looked down at the black rose.
The only thing that had not withered.
"Then let's unmake it."
He flinched. "The house won't allow it."
"I'm not asking."
She raised her hand.
The sigil flared.
Behind her, the covered mirror shattered.
Glass rained down in silence.
And from the shards rose the reflections of the brides.
Their mouths no longer sewn.
Their eyes no longer shut.
They gathered behind Zina—silent, radiant, terrible.
Kain dropped to his knees.
"I tried to protect them," he whispered. "But the house… it changed me."
"You don't have to be its king anymore," Zina said softly. "Be something else."
He looked up at her.
"And what are you now?"
Zina didn't smile.
She stepped forward.
Took his hand.
And placed the rose into it.
> "I'm the one who ends this."