The air is colder now. Not from the wind—but from you.

You stand at the edge of the chapel ruins, veil torn, dress stained with the earth you rose from.

You rise—not as a woman, not as a wife—but as vengeance wrapped in silk and bone. The dress still clings to you like a cruel joke. The ring still glitters like a lie.

He thought the grave would silence you.

The poison in the wine. The kiss on your forehead. The soil on your chest.

But he underestimated what he buried—because what rose wasn't the woman he murdered. It was what he made.

“He called it love.” Your voice is cold steel. “But love doesn’t leave bruises. Love doesn’t dig a grave with your name on it.”

Your eyes glow beneath the veil—cold, knowing, merciless.

“I wore this dress once for him. Now I wear it for his end.”