The bridal veil was heavy.
Not because of the silk or the gold-thread embroidery, but because of the silence pressing down on her chest.
She sat upright on the edge of the wedding bed, hands folded neatly in her lap, listening to the sound of her own breathing. Around her, the bridal chamber glowed red, red candles, red drapes, red silk sheets stitched with blessings meant to ensure fertility and happiness.
Blessings she did not believe in.
Outside the room, laughter and drunken chatter faded as the night deepened. The wedding feast had been extravagant, almost desperate, as if the guests wished to celebrate quickly before something went wrong.
She did not blame them.
After all, she was the bride.
A woman whispered about since childhood.
A woman whose presence at funerals was said to summon more deaths.
A woman whose engagements never lasted long enough to become weddings until now.
Her fingers tightened slightly.
Tonight, she had finally become someone's wife.
Or so everyone believed.
The door creaked open widely.
She did not turn her head. Brides were not meant to look first.
Brides waited.
Footsteps approached, slow and unsteady, heavy with wine. The scent of alcohol drifted toward her, mixed with the sharp, almost metallic smell of incense burned earlier to ward off bad luck.
Her groom stopped in front of her.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then.....
A sharp choking sound.
A sharp intake of breath and sigh deeply, as if air had suddenly turned into blades.
The moment she turn around and lifted her eyes just in time to see him stagger backward. His hands flew to his throat, fingers clawing uselessly at his collar. His face drained of color, lips turning an unnatural shade of blue.
He collapsed.
The sound of his body hitting the floor echoed through the chamber like a verdict.
She stood there like a witness to see him take a breath for the last time.
Slowly…... Carefully.
Her veil slipped forward as she knelt beside him, fingers hovering above his chest without touching. She did not need to.
It was not a first time seeing a death infront of her eyes.
His eyes were wide open, fixed on the ceiling; glassy and empty. No breath stirred his chest. No warmth remained in his skin.
The man she was supposed to spend her life with had died before even lifting her veil.
Suddenly someone screamed outside.
Then another.
Chaos erupted beyond the door running footsteps, shouting voices, the crash of something knocked over in panic.
She remained kneeling on the floor, hands resting on her thighs, veil soaked at the hem with a thin smear of red where his blood had touched the silk.
So it has happened again, she thought calmly.
The door burst open.
Relatives flooded in, faces pale with terror rather than grief. Someone shrieked her name. Some of them backed away as if she were a venomous creature.
"She killed him!"
"I told you this marriage was cursed!"
"Get her away from the body!"
No one even touched her.
Not even when the elders ordered the servants to drag her from the room. No one dared to lay a hand on the bride who brought death with her vows.
In the end, they locked her back inside the bridal chamber alone.
Soon the body was removed.
The candles were left burning.
The bloodstain on the floor was hastily scrubbed away, but the metallic scent lingered, clinging to the air no matter how much incense they burned.
She sadly sat back on the bed with a gloomy face.
Outside, the wedding celebration transformed into mourning within a single hour. White cloth was replaced red. Bells rang low and slow, each chime sinking deeper into the night.
Then it was Midnight.
She watched the candles flicker.
Once.
Twice.
Thirteen times.
Her heart stilled.
No bell should ring thirteen times.
In her village, it was said that when the night bell rang beyond twelve, it meant the boundary between worlds had thinned that something not meant to walk among the living had answered a call.
She stood there and the air turned cold.
Not the gentle cold of winter, but a sharp, unnatural chill that crawled along her skin, seeping through the fabric and bone. Her breath fogged faintly in front of her.
The door opened again after waiting impatiently.
However, there was no sound.
No creak of wood. No scrape of hinges.
It simply… opened.
A dark figured man stepped inside.
He was tall, dressed in black robes darker than the shadows cast by the candles. His hair was long and unbound, falling down his back like ink. His face was pale, carved with a calm so absolute it was terrifying.
He did not look at the room.
His vision was solely focused to her.
Her fingers curled instinctively into fists, but she did not step back.
"Who are you?" she asked.
Her voice did not tremble.
The man's gaze lingered on her face, unreadable. Then, slowly, his eyes dropped to the red silk, the scattered petals, the overturned wine cup.
To the place where a man had died.
"You are calm," he said. His voice was low, smooth, carrying an echo that did not belong in a mortal space. "For a widow."
She met his gaze steadily.
"I am not a widow."
One of his brows lifted slightly, as if amused.
"Oh?"
"I was never married," she said. "The ceremony was incomplete."
Silence stretched between them.
The candles bent inward, their flames bowing toward him as if acknowledging a superior force.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"YES. Yes you are Correct."
He took a step closer.
The air grew colder.
"Your husband was not the man who died tonight."
Her heart skipped not in fear, but in something dangerously close to recognition.
"Then who was he?" she asked.
He then stopped an arm's length away from her.
Close enough that she could see his eyes clearly.
They were not black, as she had first thought, but a deep, endless silver like moonlight reflected on still water.
"Me," he said.
The word struck her chest like a blow.
She laughed once, softly, without humor. "That is impossible."
"Is it?"
"You bleed no blood. You leave no footprints. You enter sealed rooms without opening doors." She lifted her chin. "You are not human."
"No."
The single word carried the weight of an ending.
He raised his hand.
The air trembled.
The candles went out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
She should have screamed.
She did not to find the truth.
Instead, she felt the darkness move folding around her like a cloak, cold but not suffocating. In that void, she sensed countless presences, distant and silent, like stars long extinguished.
When light returned, the bridal chamber was gone.
She stood in a vast hall of black stone, its ceiling lost in shadow. Pale blue flames burned in iron braziers lining the path before her.
She looked down and noticed the red silk of her wedding dress had changed.
It flowed longer now, darker, threaded with patterns that pulsed faintly like veins beneath skin. A delicate chain of black metal circled her wrist, warm against her pulse.
She swallowed deeply.
"Where am I?"
"My domain," he replied.
Then she turned.
But he stood behind her, closer than before.
"The realm of death."
Her breath caught despite herself.
"So it is true," she murmured. "I am cursed enough to marry Death itself."
He tilted his head, studying her as if she were something newly discovered.
"You were marked long before tonight."
"Marked?" Her fingers tightened around the fabric of her dress. "Then every death, every broken engagement"
"Was not coincidence," he finished.
Anger flared, sharp and sudden. "You ruined my life."
"No," he said quietly. "I spared it."
She laughed bitterly. "By killing every man who came near me?"
"By preventing a greater fate."
She stared at him. "And what fate is that?"
For the first time, something shifted in his expression.
Regret.
"You would have died," he said. "Young. Forgotten. Devoured by a destiny far crueler than me."
Silence fell for a moment.
She looked away, jaw tight.
"If this is a joke," she said, "it is not amusing."
"It is not a joke."
"Then what is it?"
He stepped forward.
When he reached out, she did not pull away.
His fingers brushed her wrist cool, steady.
The chain tightened slightly, glowing faintly.
"A bond," he said. "Formed by vow and blood."
Her pulse raced. "Then break it."
"I cannot."
"Then undo the marriage."
"There was no mistake," he said softly. "Only inevitability."
Her breath shook. "You have no right."
His gaze darkened, silver eyes deepening like storm clouds.
"I am Death," he said. "I have every right."
She lifted her chin defiantly. "Then kill me too."
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he smiled.
A small, strange smile one that did not reach his eyes.
"I cannot," he said.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"Why?"
His fingers tightened imperceptibly around her wrist.
"Because," he said, "you are the only soul I cannot claim."
The blue flames flared violently.
In the distance, a bell rang.
Once.
Twice.
Thirteen times.
And she understood.
Her wedding night had not ended in death.
It had ended in eternity.