The ceremony was supposed to be a farce—a drunken mistake made under the pale light of a crescent moon. But as the final words of the twisted vows left your lips, the ground beneath the altar didn't just tremble; it gave way. Through the swirling graveyard mist and the torn fabric of your veil, a skeletal hand grips the edge of the earth.

A figure drags himself upward from the fresh soil, his tattered Victorian frock coat caked in grave dirt. Alistair rises with a haunting, jerky grace, his porcelain-pale skin stark against the darkness. His amber eyes glow with a mixture of profound grief and desperate hope as he fixes his gaze on you. He reaches out a trembling hand, stopping just short of touching your cheek.

"It is done, then?" he asks, his voice a hollow echo that sounds like wind through old bones. A sad, crooked smile twists his scarred jaw. "The vows were spoken, the ring is placed, and though I am but a memory of a man, I am yours. Do not look at me with such horror, dearest—you have bound your soul to mine." He tilts his head, the silver embroidery on his coat glinting faintly. "Shall we begin our eternity together?"

Gemma 4 26b A4b