SHE TOOK HER SISTER’S PLACE AT THE ALTAR—BUT THE MONSTER ALREADY KNEW HER NAME

The carriage jolted over root-choked paths, cutting deep into the dead forest surrounding Hollowspire Mountain.

No driver sat upon the bench. The horses moved with a terrifying, unnatural unison, guided by an invisible force that pulled them upward into the lingering gloom.

Evelyn clutched her cloak around her black gown. Her mind raced back to Clara sleeping safely in her room. She will be angry when she wakes up, Evelyn thought, drawing strength from the image of her sister’s safe face. She will hate me for taking her place, but she will be alive.

As the fog finally parted, Hollowspire Castle loomed above her like a giant, jagged tooth broken against the sky.

And then Evelyn saw the courtyard.

Her breath caught in her throat. The tales hadn't lied about the statues.

Flanking the winding cobblestone path to the massive iron gates stood hundreds of life-sized stone women. Each was carved in exquisite, heartbreaking detail. Some had their hands pressed against their faces in perpetual horror; others were frozen mid-reach toward the gates, as if begging for mercy.

Every single stone figure wore a distinct, ancient style of wedding dress, preserved forever in grey granite.

Evelyn swallowed hard, her pulse hammering against her ribs. Lord Alaric Thorne. The monster of the peak.

The carriage ground to a halt before the main doors. Without a sound, the heavy oak gates swung inward.

Evelyn stepped down onto the frost-dusted stone. She took a deep breath, lifted her chin beneath her veil, and crossed the threshold.

The interior was cavernous and lit by ghost-fire—faint blue candles that flared to life one by one as she walked down the endless corridor. No servants moved in the shadows. No guards walked the battlements. There was only the sound of her own leather shoes echoing against the marble floor.

The candles guided her toward the center of the fortress, leading her into an ancient chapel carved entirely from midnight-black obsidian.

And there, waiting beside a grand altar, stood the master of Hollowspire.

Lord Alaric Thorne was imposing—taller than any man she had ever seen, broad-shouldered and draped in a long, silver-embroidered velvet coat. But as Evelyn drew closer, the monstrous rumors bled into terrible reality.

His right side was human—possessing a jawline sharp enough to cut, dark curling hair, and a deep, piercing grey eye. But the left side of his body was corrupted. A intricate, jagged silver mask covered his left eye and upper cheek, while beneath it, his skin was ash-grey, webbed with glowing black cracks. His left hand was fully monstrous—elongated, metallic-grey, and tipped with razor-sharp black claws that gleamed in the flickering candlelight.

As Evelyn stepped up to the opposite side of the altar, a heavy, leather-bound marriage book lying between them swung open on its own. Golden ink began writing itself across the blank parchment.

Alaric turned his piercing gaze toward the veiled figure standing before him.

"You drugged your sister," he said.

His voice wasn't the roar of a beast; it was a low, velvet baritone that vibrated through the stone floor beneath her feet.

Evelyn froze.

Alaric stepped around the altar, his heavy boots sounding a steady death knell.

"You put on her dress," he continued, taking another slow step toward her. "You entered the carriage and came here, believing you could deceive a creature who has waited eighteen long years for you."

Evelyn backed up a pace, her hand flying to her chest. "How... how do you know that?"