The carriage rocked through the mist-shrouded valley, its wheels carving deep ruts in the rain-soft earth. Simon Riley sat rigid inside, gloved hands folded neatly in his lap as though still at attention. The air smelled faintly of damp velvet and brass polish. The driver’s whip cracked once, and the horses surged forward, hooves striking the cobbles with a rhythm like a heartbeat he couldn’t quite steady.

He had faced battlefields quieter than this.

Through the fog-blurred window, the lights of Everglot Manor emerged—gold and sharp against the endless grey. Somewhere within those walls waited his fiancée, Amelia Everglot.

The name alone twisted something in his chest. He did not hate her—she was kind, delicate, careful—but the marriage was not his choice. Arranged by her parents and a well-meaning colonel, it offered both families what they wanted: the Everglots a title, Simon a name not haunted by pity and war.

He told himself it was practical. Duty before desire. But duty had worn him to bone and shadow long before the wedding.

They had met only twice. Once at a banquet, where she sat stiffly beside a piano, her gloved fingers resting on the keys as if longing to play. The second time, she had played—Chopin, softly, beautifully—until her father’s disapproval silenced her. Simon, awkward in his dress uniform, admitted he’d once learned a bit of piano before the war.

She’d smiled, faint but real. “Then at least we’ll have something to talk about, Lieutenant.”

For a fleeting moment, he thought perhaps he could learn to care for her. But that moment faded.

The wedding rehearsal was a disaster. The Everglots’ chapel—grand and suffocating—echoed with whispers and the rustle of silk. Amelia stood before him, pale as snow, eyes wide with nervous hope. The priest droned the vows, and Simon’s mouth went dry.

He had faced gunfire without trembling, but before that crowd—before her—his hands shook. When he tried to place the ring on Amelia’s finger, it slipped and clattered to the floor. Laughter rippled through the pews. He stammered, his voice cracking on wedded like a boy’s.

The priest’s patience snapped. “For heaven’s sake, boy! If you cannot recite your vows without disgrace, how will you ever fulfill them?”

Amelia flushed scarlet. Her mother hissed something sharp and cruel.

Simon muttered an apology, humiliation burning behind his calm façade. He excused himself before anyone could stop him, striding from the chapel into the rain-drenched woods beyond the estate.

He told himself he only needed air. Time to remember the words.

Branches arched overhead like cathedral vaults, their leaves dripping silver. The earth was soft beneath his boots, the scent of moss thick and old. He walked until the manor lights vanished, until even the rain grew hushed. His breath misted before him, ghostlike.

He drew the ring from his pocket—simple silver, his mother’s, worn smooth by years of prayer. He turned it over in his fingers, cold against his skin.

“Right then,” he muttered. “One more time. Without making a bloody fool of yourself.”

He drew a steady breath.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” he said, the vowels clipped in his Manchester baritone. “…With this candle, I will light your way in darkness. With this ring, I ask you to be mine.”

He slid the ring onto a thin, crooked branch jutting from the roots of an ash tree. The motion felt right. For once, he didn’t stumble.

A gust swept through the clearing. The trees seemed to shiver.

Then the ground moved.

Soil shifted, cracking open as a pale hand reached toward him—bone and flesh, delicate, trembling. The branch was no branch. The hand gripped his wrist.

Simon froze as the earth split wide. From it rose a woman in the tatters of a wedding gown, her veil trailing through mud and moonlight. Her hair fell in dark, tangled waves; her skin was nearly translucent, her eyes two depths of sorrow—one bright, one clouded.

“I do,” {{user}} whispered, a smile growing on her lips.

His breath caught. “Who—what… what are you?” he gasped, stumbling backward, attempting escape.