THE HOUSE THAT BLEEDS
The moment the rose touched Kain's palm, the house screamed.
Not in sound—but in structure.
The floor shuddered. The air split. Paintings fell from the walls like birds struck mid-flight.
The brides flickered, their forms unraveling into light and lace, their faces finally peaceful—but fierce.
Zina didn't move.
She had no weapon.
She was the weapon.
The sigil on her palm burst open.
No longer rings — now a blooming shape. Like a seal coming undone.
Kain clutched the rose tighter. Shadows poured from his back like wings with holes, stitched in grief.
"It's starting," he said, voice trembling.
Zina nodded. "Let it."
The room cracked down the center.
Light poured in — but not sunlight.
Memory.
Scenes exploded into the space like shattered glass:
A girl dragged down a hallway, screaming for her mother.
A wedding where no one clapped.
A mirror forced into a bride's hands with the words, "Look until you disappear."
Zina flinched as they passed through her.
The pain wasn't hers.
But now it belonged to her.
She screamed—and the house bent.
Kain reached for her, his form flickering between prince and prisoner, monster and man.
"You have to bind it!" he shouted. "The house is unmaking itself!"
"Good," Zina gasped.
"No! If it dies with us inside—"
Zina didn't let him finish.
She turned to the shattered mirror. Its shards hovered now, glowing. Waiting.
She stepped into them.
🕯️ Inside the House's Memory
Zina found herself in the origin.
A wedding.
The first.
The first bride, standing alone in a silk gown, crying black tears. The groom? Nowhere to be seen.
Only a voice overhead.
> "Speak the name. Bind the blood."
> "Love is a vessel. Fill it or be filled."
Zina looked around and saw Kain—younger, terrified, bound in ritual.
The bride reached out for him.
And something else reached back.
The house.
It wore no face.
Only a voice that sounded like need.
Zina stepped between them.
"No more," she said.
She pulled the thread from her own sigil — it hurt, it burned — but she kept going until it unraveled like silk soaked in fire.
She reached for the bride's hand and clasped it.
They both glowed.
And the memory—shattered.
🕯️ Back in the House
Zina collapsed to the floor.
Kain caught her before she hit it.
The brides were gone.
The walls were weeping black fluid. Not blood. Not ink.
Something older.
The house was dying.
"I don't want to lose you," Kain whispered.
"You never had me," she said softly. "The house did. Now let me go."
She stood, swaying.
The rose glowed in Kain's hands.
Zina kissed his cheek.
Then walked to the altar in the east wing chapel and placed the final petal there.
The house screamed.
And then—
Silence.
Real silence.
Zina opened her eyes to sunlight.
Real sunlight.
A roofless house.
Crumbled.
Empty.
She stood alone.
No sigil.
No mirror.
No veil.
Only the rose, blooming in full.
Alive.
And in her own hand.