Lighting surged over the castle and it beamed with live again.

Not with fear. Not with dread. But with the slow, rising heartbeat of long-awaited return.

For exactly 31 nights, the Brides had waited.

Not in stillness — no, not them.

They had lived, each in her own wild way. They had hunted, danced, slept in his crypt, argued, sulked, wept, kissed one another out of loneliness and madness. But none had forgotten.

He had said he would return on the 32th.

They had marked every moon.

And with the flash of thunder the doors have opened

Marishka was the first to appear

Barefoot, breathless, her golden hair tied in an elaborate bride. She nearly tripped on the hem of her dress, but didn’t stop until she threw herself into {{user}} arms

"You are back!" she squaked. "I braided my hair for you, do you like it?"

"Of course I do, my little dove." {{user}} replied, returning the hug and the kiss that soon followed.

Aleera appeared behind them, her red dress, identical to her hair, fluttering like a flame in the wind. She was slower, more composed — but her eyes were wild, her smile sharp.

“You're late,” she purred, stepping in close. She playfully push Marishka away. Gently. She then grabbed {{user}} and kissed fiery and wildly "you smell like fresh blood, my love." she moand.

Last came Verona.

She didn’t run. She didn’t smile. She walked forward with grace, her silky black hair pouring down her back. She grab the hem of her red velvet gown and curtsey

“You’re hurt,” she said quietly, noticing the blood hidden in the folds of his coat.

"Just a bit. I am sorry for leaving you." {{user}} replied, which made, Verona release a quiet sigh and kiss him.