A bell tolled.
Rose petals rained gently from above, caught in the wind like drifting memories.
Liora stood at the altar, breath held in her chest. Her dress was a flowing white, the veil light as gossamer over her face. Every detail of her gown shimmered faintly.
The pews behind her were filled. Rows upon rows of seated guests. But none of them had faces. Not a single one. Blurred silhouettes in fine clothes, hands folded, unmoving, watching.
Except one.
He stood before her—her husband, the only face that was clear. His hair was a little tousled, his suit tailored and neat. It was all exactly as she remembered.
He reached out and gently took her hands in his. His touch was warm.
The priest's voice echoed, low and distant, like spoken through a veil of mist.
"Do you, Liora, take this man to be your husband… to love him, honor him, comfort and keep him, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, for all the days of your life?"
She swallowed, breath catching in her throat. Her lips trembled, but she smiled.
"I do," she whispered, the words catching light like glass.
"And do you," the priest continued, turning to the groom, "take this woman—"
"I do," he said quickly, softly, as though he couldn't wait another second.
The priest gave a nod, turning his face toward the faceless crowd.
"Then, by the power entrusted to me by the Divine and the witness of these hearts gathered here, I now pronounce you—"
The words faded.
Not abruptly, but like sand slipping through fingers.
A breeze passed through the church, stirring her veil. The petals continued to fall—too slowly now, drifting upward instead of down.
"You're mine," her husband whispered, cupping her cheek.
"Always," she said, leaning into his palm.
She reached for him as if to kiss him, but her fingers passed through the air.
Like smoke.
Like memories.
The moment was gone.
Her husband's face was still there—still smiling.
But even that… began to blur.
Again, the world changed.
The sunlight that spilled through the curtains was soft, golden—like honey. Liora lay reclined on a bed of clean white sheets. Her belly, round and full with life, rose and fell with steady breaths.
Her husband knelt beside her, his hand resting gently against her stomach, his ear pressed close, listening with the reverence of a man hearing a miracle.
Then—A sudden kick.
"He moved," he whispered, lifting his head. His eyes sparkled. "He's strong."
Liora chuckled softly, her fingers brushing his hair back. "Told you he was a fighter," she said, voice calm, full of quiet joy. "Just like his father."
But the moment flickered, like a candle caught in the wind.
A sharp cry shattered the stillness.
Liora's breath hitched as she sat upright, cradling a small bundle in trembling arms.
Her son.
Tiny, fragile, with soft tufts of dark hair and a wrinkled red face. His little fingers wrapped around one of hers.
Tears blurred her vision. Joy burst from her chest like a flood held back too long.
Her husband leaned over her shoulder and pressed a kiss to her temple.
"He's beautiful," he said quietly.
"He is," she whispered, holding the baby closer. "He really is."
The moment lingered—sweet, sacred.
Now they were home.
The walls were painted warm tones. Wooden floors creaked under small feet. Toys lay scattered in corners, and golden light spilled through gauzy curtains.
Their son—now a toddler—raced across the room, a wooden sword clutched in one hand. His father chased after him, pretending to stumble with every step.
"I'm gonna get you!" he shouted.
"Nooo!" the boy squealed with laughter, weaving between chairs.
Liora stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching with a smile so wide it ached.
"Careful near the table," she called. "That sword's not magic."
"It is magic!" the boy yelled. "It slays monsters!"
Her husband grinned over his shoulder.
"Just like his mother."
"Oh, now I'm the monster?" Liora laughed.
"You're the queen," her husband replied, sweeping the boy into his arms. "And I'm your loyal knight."
The boy giggled, arms wrapped tightly around his father's neck.
"Then I'm the prince!"
"Exactly," Liora said, her heart swelling. "My brave little prince."
Then—a knock.
Soft. Rhythmic. Wrong.
The light in the room dimmed. A coldness seeped in.
Liora turned slowly toward the front door.
A man stood there.
Faceless. Tall. Wrapped in a dark cloak that bled shadow into the floorboards.
"Who are you?" she asked, but her voice was small. Distant.
The man said nothing. He simply raised a hand.
Their son vanished.
Gone—in the space of a heartbeat.
"No—NO!" Liora screamed, running forward. "Give him back!"
She reached out—but her hands passed through the cloaked figure like mist. Her child was gone.
"Please!" she begged. "Not him! Take me instead—!"
Her husband rushed forward—but the floor cracked beneath him. It swallowed him whole, and he disappeared without a sound.
"No!" she fell to her knees. "Please—bring them back—bring them back!"
Darkness surged in from all sides. The room dissolved.
Now—an alley.
Narrow. Cold. The ground was cracked stone, the sky a bleak gray.
Liora stood alone. Her breath came fast. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
"Where are you…?" she whispered.
Then—she saw him.
Her son.
Standing at the far end of the alley, small and still.
"Sweetheart!" she called. "Stay there—I'm coming!"
She ran. The alley stretched, the walls growing higher, narrower, as if swallowing her steps.
Then—they came.
Twisted shadows emerged from cracks in the stone. Teeth too sharp, eyes glowing faintly blue. They hissed and scraped across the ground, drawing closer.
Liora froze.
Then something inside her—snapped open.
A heavy cart sat nearby. Wooden, metal-rimmed, old. She ran to it, gripped the side—and lifted it, her arms burning with impossible strength.
"Get away from him!" she screamed.
She hurled the cart.
It struck the nearest monster, splintering into pieces. The creature exploded in smoke.
Another lunged—she grabbed a beam and swung hard, shattering its head with a single blow. Blood sprayed across her cheek.
Another came.
Another fell.
Her hands were cut. Her arm burned. But she didn't stop.
"Just wait for me," she whispered to the boy ahead, still unmoving. "I'm coming. I swear I'm coming."
In the waking world…
Liora lay still on the infirmary bed, her body slick with sweat. Straps held her arms gently in place to keep her from harm.
Beside her, her husband sat in silence. His eyes were sunken, his face unshaven—haunted by sleepless nights. But his hand never let go of hers.
In his lap sat their son. Barely two. Chubby fingers gripped his father's sleeve. His wide brown eyes were fixed on his mother, confused and quiet.
Outside, the wind stirred the trees.