THE OTHER BRIDES

There were names carved into the stone beneath her bed.

Zina hadn't seen them before.

Not until the dream.

Not until she woke up choking on black mist, her fingers clutched around the mirror shard, its edges biting into her palm as if guiding her. She had flung the rug aside without understanding why, heart pounding, blood buzzing.

And there they were.

Seven names etched along the floorboards in delicate script—some etched shallowly, others carved with fury deep enough to splinter wood.

She traced the first.

> Amira.

Next to it, in smaller writing: "She wore white and burned."

Then:

> Nkechi.

"She asked too many questions."

> Deyra.

"She sang the curse in her sleep."

> *Selimeh. Zara of the Fifth Sun. Ayo from the Iron March."

And then, beneath all of them, nearly hidden by a knot in the wood:

> Eronna. First and last.

Not a bride.

A queen.

Zina reached out to touch the name—and pain lanced through her palm.

Like static. Like memory.

The air around her shivered. The sigil beneath her collarbone pulsed once. Then silence.

But in that moment, Zina felt something shift.

She was not just sleeping in the bed of a dead bride.

She was walking on the bones of their stories.

She rose and dressed quickly. A plain dark gown. No veil.

No pretense.

If the house had chosen her, then it could no longer hide from her either.

She left her room and walked down the west wing corridor—the one she'd been warned away from more than once. The hallway that belonged to the brides who never left.

It was colder than the rest of the palace. The torches here never burned properly, just guttered low and gave off the scent of dying things.

Zina passed door after door. Each bore a sigil, a unique crest carved into the wood.

Most were dark.

Forgotten.

Two glowed faintly—like candles left burning in memory.

And one pulsed.

Like it was breathing.

She stopped in front of it.

The door was slightly ajar.

She hesitated only for a moment—then pushed it open.

The room was untouched by time.

Dustless. Cold. Draped in silver silks and deep violet velvet. The air hummed low, like a chant just beneath hearing.

In the center stood a dress.

White. Woven with silver thread that caught the dim light like a whisper. Suspended mid-air, as if on an invisible woman's body.

Below it, a pair of delicate slippers.

Positioned perfectly.

Waiting.

Zina moved closer.

The floor beneath her creaked once—then fell silent.

A mirror stood in the far corner. Not covered. Not cracked.

Clean.

Polished.

It shimmered as she approached.

And then—

A figure appeared behind her.

Not in the room.

In the glass.

A woman. Regal. Cloaked in shadow and veiled in light. Her eyes glowed gold. Her lips curled slightly in something between amusement and sorrow.

> "You're not ready," the figure said.

Zina's breath caught.

> "But the house is. And soon, it won't ask permission."

Zina turned sharply—but the room was empty.

She faced the mirror again.

Now it only showed her reflection.

Her eyes were wide. Her mouth slightly open. But her pulse—steady now.

Because deep down… she wasn't afraid.

She was remembering.

Kain was in her room when she returned.

He was sitting on the edge of her bed, sleeves rolled to his elbows, head bent as if in thought. But he straightened the moment he sensed her.

No mask.

No crown.

No pretense of coldness.

Just a man who looked like he hadn't slept in days—and didn't expect to again.

> "You've been walking the west wing," he said.

It wasn't a question.

Zina shut the door quietly. "Yes."

He studied her. And nodded, slowly. As if this moment had been coming for a long time.

> "Then it's time I tell you the truth."

She folded her arms. "All of it?"

A pause.

> "As much as I can… before the house hears me."

He stood and walked to the hearth, where a fire still burned low. He fed it a small log, then turned back to her.

> "The house doesn't just trap the cursed. It preserves their echoes."

Zina frowned. "The brides?"

> "All seven."

> "What happened to them?"

He didn't speak for a moment. Then: "The house chose them, like it chose you. But each of them tried to leave."

Zina stepped closer. "And?"

> "Some disappeared. Some were… changed. One died with her eyes open and kept whispering for hours afterward."

Her stomach turned. "You let that happen?"

He looked at her sharply.

> "Do you think I rule this place?"

> "I thought—"

> "I'm bound here, Zina. I was the curse, once. Now I'm just its prisoner."

She hesitated. "And Eronna? Who was she?"

Kain's eyes flickered to the shadows.

> "My queen."

A beat.

> "My bride. My executioner."

> "And maybe… my savior."