The fire behind them was not dying.
It chased them.
Not like ordinary flame, but like something alive — twisting through the black trees, burning without consuming, each ember a red eye that watched and remembered.
Lucien's hand was like iron around hers, pulling her through the charred undergrowth. His coat was torn, scorched in places where sparks had bitten him. He didn't seem to notice. He was looking only forward, toward the skeletal hills beyond the forest.
"Don't stop," he said, his voice ragged but sure.
"I'm not," Isadora replied. Her lungs felt scraped raw, every breath heavy with smoke.
The air here was thick. The world had gone dim, not with the night, but with a smothering shadow that had no source.
Somewhere far behind, the Black Cathedral groaned — a sound like iron gates slamming shut across the horizon. And then, faintly… laughter.
---
They stumbled into a clearing where the moonlight pooled silver on the frost‑slick ground. For a moment, they paused, catching their breath.
Lucien leaned against a tree, eyes scanning the darkness. "We need to put distance between us and the spire before—"
The frost cracked.
Both froze.
A long, thin shadow stretched across the clearing, even though no figure cast it. It slithered forward, coiling like smoke around Isadora's feet. She jerked back, heart pounding.
The whisper came next — low, deep, velvet‑dark.
> "My bride…"
The shadow recoiled like a whip, sinking into the earth.
Lucien moved instantly, grabbing her arm. "He's tracking us through your mark. We can't stay exposed like this."
---
They pushed onward. The forest here grew stranger — the trunks narrowing into pale, almost skeletal forms, their bark smooth like skin. Faces began to form in the knots, some with eyes half‑open, some with mouths parted in silent screams.
Isadora glanced once at a low branch and nearly stumbled — it had hair. Long, black strands swaying in the cold breeze.
Her stomach turned. "Lucien…?"
"I see it," he muttered, jaw tight. "Don't touch anything."
It was impossible not to feel the forest looking at her. The deeper they went, the louder the whispers became, as if the trees themselves were leaning close to breathe secrets in her ear.
> "You still want him."
"You burned his cathedral, yet you ache for his touch."
"When you kissed Lucien, you thought of me."
She clenched her teeth, forcing herself to keep walking.
---
An hour — or a lifetime — later, they found a narrow stream winding between black boulders. The water ran dark, and she realized with a twist of unease that it was warm.
Lucien crouched, touching it. "It's safe enough to drink."
She knelt beside him. "You're sure?"
His lips curved faintly, though the exhaustion in his face softened the smile. "No. But if it kills us, at least we'll die together."
She almost laughed, but it came out as a choked sound. Her hands were trembling. She hated how much she needed his nearness right now — and how much it reminded her of the Devil's closeness in the cathedral.
Lucien noticed. "He's in your head again, isn't he?"
She didn't answer right away. "He's always there. Even when he's not speaking, I can feel him."
Lucien's gaze hardened. "We'll find a way to cut him out. Burn the root. Whatever it takes."
Her eyes met his. "Even if it burns me too?"
He didn't flinch. "Especially if it burns you too. Because I'd rather lose you than watch him take you."
---
The stream's warmth seeped into her fingers as she drank. But as soon as the water touched her lips, she tasted something else — salt, copper, and… smoke. She coughed, spitting it out.
Lucien frowned. "What is it?"
"The water…" She looked down. The surface no longer showed her reflection. Instead, it showed the Devil's face — smiling.
> "My bride. My flame."
Her blood ran cold.
Lucien grabbed her wrist and yanked her back from the water. The reflection vanished, leaving only ripples.
He didn't hesitate. "We're moving. Now."
---
The forest thinned as the ground began to rise. The hills here were jagged, scar‑cut stone bleeding streams of red clay. The wind was sharper, whistling through cracks in the rock like the breath of some buried giant.
They followed a narrow path between two ridges. The stones here were marked — not by nature, but by hands. Scratched words in a language she didn't know curled around each boulder. Some glowed faintly, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.
Lucien touched one of the marks. His expression darkened. "These are binding wards. Old. They're meant to keep something out… or keep something in."
"Which is it?"
He gave her a grim look. "Let's hope we don't find out."
---
But the wards didn't stop the shadows.
They began to appear again — creeping along the stones, lengthening until they almost touched her feet. One of them stretched higher, forming the vague outline of a man in a groom's coat.
Lucien stepped in front of her, sword drawn. "Stay behind me."
The shadow figure tilted its head.
Then it split into two — then four — then eight. All identical. All faceless. All advancing.
Lucien swung his blade through the nearest one, and it dissolved into black mist. But the others kept coming.
Isadora backed away until her spine hit the ridge wall. One shadow reached for her. Its fingers were cold — impossibly cold — and when they brushed her cheek, she heard his voice again.
> "Run if you like. I only walk when I hunt you."
Her knees nearly buckled.
Lucien's roar snapped her back. "Isadora — MOVE!"
---
They ran again.
By the time they reached the crest of the ridge, both were breathless, sweat chilling on their skin despite the cold. Below them stretched a valley filled with fog, but not the kind she knew. This fog pulsed, lit from within by a dull red glow.
Lucien swore under his breath. "We'll have to cross it."
She stared at him. "We don't even know what it is."
His eyes met hers — and in them she saw the same fear she felt. "I know what's behind us. I'd rather face the unknown than face him here."
---
They descended into the valley.
The fog was thicker than it looked from above, curling around them like silk and smelling faintly of roses… and something metallic.
The deeper they went, the harder it became to hear anything but their own breathing. The world beyond the fog simply… disappeared.
She almost didn't notice when Lucien's hand slipped from hers.
"Lucien?"
No answer.
Her heart thudded painfully. "Lucien!"
The fog shifted — and the Devil was there. Not in shadow, not in reflection. In flesh.
He was dressed as he had been at the wedding feast — black silk, crimson cravat, eyes like molten coal. His smile was gentle.
> "You burn beautifully, my bride."
Her pulse pounded in her ears. She wanted to scream, to run — but his presence filled every inch of her.
> "This retreat of yours… it is sweet. But it is only the walk before you turn back to me."
She forced her voice to work. "I will never turn back to you."
He stepped closer, cupping her chin. "You already have. Every step you take away from me, you take inside me."
Her skin crawled where he touched her. She slapped his hand away. "You will never have me."
The Devil's smile faded — but his eyes only deepened.
> "Oh, Isadora… You think this is running? This is the walk down the aisle."
---
The fog tore suddenly — and Lucien's arm closed around her. He pulled her away so fast she stumbled.
"Don't listen to him," he growled, dragging her through the red mist until the glow dimmed.
When they broke free, the night was clear again — but the forest ahead looked darker than ever.
They collapsed under the twisted branches, their chests heaving.
Lucien cupped her face. "Are you hurt?"
"No." Her voice was hoarse. "But he's not going to let us go."
Lucien's gaze was steady, burning. "Then we don't stop moving. We keep retreating — until retreat becomes attack."
She nodded, though her heart knew the truth:
You cannot outrun a groom who carries Hell in his hands.
End of chapter Twenty-two