— The Bride's Last Choice —
The ceremonial platform stood at the heart of the venue, elevated just enough to command every gaze. From below, it appeared pristine, unmarred by doubt or hesitation—an altar designed not for union, but for confirmation.
Damien and Seraphine stepped onto it side by side.
Their movements were synchronized, rehearsed to the smallest detail. Damien's posture was relaxed, confident, his expression polished into something indistinguishable from affection.
Seraphine matched his pace, her back straight, her veil perfectly arranged, her smile fixed in place like an accessory chosen for the occasion.
Only her fingers betrayed her. They were cold within his grasp.
At the center of the platform stood the offering table, draped in ceremonial red. Upon it rested the instruments of tradition: arranged offerings, thin incense sticks already smoldering, shallow bowls of wine, and—placed precisely at the center—a dagger, its surface catching the light with clinical clarity.
It was not symbolic violence. It was procedural.
The blade existed for a purpose: a controlled incision, a measured loss of blood, fingerprints pressed onto the marriage contract before it was burned, binding the covenant not merely in law, but in something older and less forgiving.
The celebrant raised his voice, amplified and unwavering.
"Two families unite today. A covenant is forged before all witnesses present."
His gaze turned to Damien.
"Mr. Damien Vale, do you take Ms. Seraphine Lark to be your wife—to love and respect her, in prosperity and in hardship, until death parts you?"
"I do."
Damien's answer came without hesitation. His voice was steady, practiced. The crowd responded with approving murmurs.
Inside, his thoughts were already elsewhere.
Wife.
No.
You are the final component.
The celebrant turned to Seraphine.
"Ms. Seraphine Lark, do you take Mr. Damien Vale to be your husband—to love and remain faithful to him, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"
Silence spread across the venue.
It was not the expectant hush of ceremony, but something heavier, stretching longer than comfort allowed. Seraphine did not lower her gaze. She looked directly at Damien.
Once, those eyes had softened when they met his. Now they reflected nothing—no fear, no appeal. Only clarity, sharpened to its final edge.
Seconds passed.
The celebrant leaned closer, his voice lowered, cautious.
"Ms. Seraphine Lark... please respond."
Damien felt it then—a faint resistance in the air, a hesitation that should not exist. His smile remained intact, but something cold surfaced behind his eyes. Power bled outward from him, subtle yet suffocating, pressing down like an invisible hand.
"Is something troubling you?" he asked gently.
The concern was rehearsed. The warning was not.
A chill ran through Seraphine's spine. Her lungs tightened, her pulse quickened under the weight of his presence. She felt the pressure clearly—and chose to stand upright within it.
She drew a slow breath.
"You ask whether I am willing," she said, her voice carrying without strain.
"Then hear my answer."
She paused—not for effect, but to ensure that nothing of herself remained unsaid.
"I am not."
The reaction was instantaneous.
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the crowd, followed by shocked exclamations that broke all restraint.
"She refused—?"
"In front of everyone?"
"Has she lost her mind?"
Damien's expression fractured.
For a fleeting moment, the mask slipped, revealing something twisted beneath. His jaw tightened, his voice lowering into something barely restrained.
"Seraphine," he said, each word pressed flat, "do you understand what you are doing?"
She met his gaze without flinching.
"In your world," she replied calmly, "people like me exist to be used. Our lives are negotiable. Our choices are decorative."
Her voice carried, clear enough for every listener.
"You took what I loved. You wrapped coercion in courtesy and called it destiny. You think I stand here because I chose you."
Her lips curved—not into a smile, but something far colder.
"That was never true."
Damien stepped closer, rage vibrating beneath his skin.
"Enough," he snapped. "You will say the words. Or I will ensure you regret this hesitation for the rest of your life."
Seraphine did not retreat.
"Regret?" she echoed softly.
"You mistake endurance for obedience."
She turned her gaze outward, toward the assembled elites, toward the witnesses who had come to celebrate.
"If living leaves no room to refuse," she said, "then I will refuse in the only way left to me."
Her hand moved.
Before anyone could react, before Damien's power fully surged, her fingers closed around the dagger.
Steel flashed.
There was no hesitation.
She drove the blade into her own chest with deliberate force.
The sound was unmistakable—dull, final.
Blood spread rapidly across the white fabric of her gown, vivid and unstoppable, collapsing beauty into horror in a single breath.
---
— Rage Upon a Sea of Blood —
A cry tore through the estate from the far entrance—raw, fractured, stripped of all restraint.
"Seraphine—!"
The sound cut across the carefully arranged space like a wound opened too late. It echoed once, struck the stone, and fell apart before reaching her.
Too late.
For a brief, impossible moment, no one reacted.
The music had stopped, but its final note still seemed to hang in the air, stretched thin, refusing to fade. Petals lay scattered across the ground, unmoving. Incense smoke curled upward in delicate threads, unaware that the ritual it served had already failed.
Silence followed—absolute and crushing.
It pressed against ears, against chests, against thought itself. Several guests realized they were holding their breath only when their lungs began to ache. Others stared without blinking, as if motion alone might make what they saw irreversible.
That fragile woman had refused calmly.
Not shouted. Not pleaded.
She had spoken as one who had already stepped beyond negotiation.
And then she had acted—completely.
Blood spread across the white fabric of her gown, soaking through silk and lace, too vivid, too real. It flowed downward in uneven paths, dripping from the hem to stain the ceremonial floor, seeping into the spaces between stone tiles that had been polished for celebration.
Damien stood frozen.
For the first time since stepping onto the platform, calculation deserted him.
His mind raced backward, replaying moments, reassessing angles, searching for the misstep. He had prepared for panic. For resistance disguised as hysteria. Even for collapse.
But not this.
Not a decision made with clarity.
Not a sacrifice that did not ask permission.
One second.
That was all it had taken.
One fraction of restraint—an instinctive pause born not of mercy, but of disbelief—and the entire structure he had built collapsed inward. The altar, the dagger, the witnesses, the rite itself—all of it rendered meaningless by a single will that refused to bend.
His chest tightened. Fury surged up, violent and unchecked, swallowing the remnants of control.
His hand rose.
The air around him shuddered, pressure gathering as power instinctively answered his intent. He took a step forward, the thought singular and absolute—
Erasure.
But before his hand could fall—
The space above the platform twisted.
Not torn open violently, but compressed, as if the world itself had drawn a sharp breath. A figure appeared where none had been a heartbeat earlier, landing amid scattered petals and blood-darkened stone.
Grief rolled outward from him, dense enough to distort the air, heavy enough to force several guests back a step without understanding why. It was not rage yet. It was something deeper—something unfinished.
The altar trembled.
The incense flames flickered wildly, then went out.
And in that suspended instant, before sound returned, before consequences fully arrived, one truth settled over the estate like a descending shadow:
The ceremony had failed.
But the reckoning had only just begun.