The forest was a hungry mouth, and Hikky Valká was walking straight down its throat.
Each step was a hammer blow against the thin membrane of her sanity.
The white silk of her wedding gown, once a symbol of her desperate hope, was now a grotesque banner of her despair, dragging through the dead leaves and mud.
It snagged on everything—thorny branches tore jagged rents in the lace, cold dew soaked the hem, and the dark stain of Dante's blood spread across the pristine fabric like a growing shadow.
She stumbled deeper, the chaotic noise of the chapel replaced by the absolute silence of the woods.
It was a heavier silence than the one that followed the gunshot—a final, suffocating quiet that pressed down on her lungs. She didn't look back.
There was nothing left there but a cold stone floor, a crimson stain, and the hissing voices of judgment.
"A curse… she's cursed."
The words echoed in the hollow space where her heart had been. Lady B's venomous accusation.. "You've killed him".. too, was a branding iron on her soul.
Did it matter that Clara Bryan pulled the trigger? No, Not to the world. Not to her. The outcome was the same: the man who loved her was gone. The prophecy had won.
She reached a small clearing where a massive, ancient oak stood, its branches twisting into the starless sky like gnarled, accusing fingers.
Hikky fell to her knees at its base, not caring about the damp earth or the cold that seeped into her bones.
Her body was wracked by a dry, gasping sob that sounded less like human grief and more like the screech of an injured animal.
She reached up to her neck and fumbled with the clasp of the ornate diamond necklace Dante had given her that morning.
Her fingers, trembling and sticky with dried blood, finally pried it open. She held the shimmering stones for a moment, the only tangible piece of the "forever" he had promised, and then hurled it with all her strength into the underbrush.
"You promised.. " she screamed, her voice cracking, swallowed instantly by the indifferent trees. "You promised we would sail through this."
Her hands went to the ribbon that held her ruined veil.
She yanked it off, letting the delicate fabric fall.
Underneath, her hair was a mess of loose curls.
She grabbed a fistful of it, pulled her head back, and let out a primal wail of pure, unadulterated agony.
There was no future, no redemption. Only the certainty that her touch, her love, was a contagion of death.
And the only way to protect anyone else from the curse—the only way to truly embrace the death she was apparently destined to carry—was to end the vessel.
She stared up at the thick, strong rope of ivy that coiled around the oak trunk like a serpent.
It was an easy, silent, and final way out.
Hikky pushed herself up, her legs shaking.
She reached out, her fingers brushing the rough, cold vine, already picturing the swift end to the suffocating pain.
It will be over, I can finally be with him. I can stop being the curse.
She was leaning into the trunk, her eyes shut, when a noise sliced through her trance. It wasn't the wind, or an animal, or the distant wail of a siren.
It was a soft, wet snicker—a sound of chilling amusement, like a stone skipping across dark water.
Hikky froze, every muscle tensing.
She spun around, her eyes wide and searching the darkness, Nothing.
Only the shadows and the silhouettes of the trees.
"W-who's there?" she whispered, the raw grief in her throat tightening into fear.
Silence..... Just the rapid, terrified thumping of her own heart.
She told herself it was her imagination, a hallucination brought on by shock and sorrow.
She turned back to the ivy, desperate to finish what she'd started.
But then, the sound came again, closer this time, and unmistakably clear. It was a low, rattling chuckle, followed by a voice—a deep, resonant baritone that spoke with a detached, almost bored tone.
"Trying to leave the party early, Hikky? And miss the grand finale?"
Hikky gasped, clutching
the tattered remains of her gown to her chest.
Standing no more than ten feet away, concealed until this moment by the deeper shadows beneath a weeping willow, was a man.
He was dressed impeccably in a charcoal suit that seemed too formal for the middle of a forest, and a blood-red tie was knotted sharply beneath his chin.
He was unnervingly pale, and his dark eyes held a cold, predatory intelligence that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.
He was a complete stranger, yet he knew her name.
"Who are you?" she stammered.
The man took a slow step forward, his polished shoes making no sound on the forest floor.
A cruel smile touched his lips, a flash of something hard and ancient.
"Me? Oh, I'm just the one collecting on the debt, little Valká." He tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over the blood-soaked dress and the tears staining her face. "You haven't held up your end of the bargain. Not yet, anyway."
He reached into his inner coat pocket and slowly produced an object: a perfectly folded, crisp white handkerchief.
"He's not dead, Hikky," the man said, his voice dropping to a hypnotic, impossible murmur.
"Not yet. But he will be. And it will be so much worse than this unless you walk away from that tree right now and come with me. You're going to use that curse of yours to save him. Or you'll spend eternity watching what happens to the man who dared to love death's only bride."
Hikky stared at the handkerchief in his hand, then at the predator's eyes, her suicide forgotten, replaced by a terrifying, new dread. Not dead?......