The Shadow King led her through endless halls, each more twisted than the last. Doors groaned, staircases shifted, and the air grew colder the deeper they walked.
At last, they entered a chamber lined with mirrors. Hundreds of them, tall and thin, reflecting their images back infinitely.
Elara shivered. "What is this place?"
His voice was calm, almost reverent. "The Mirror Hall. It shows truths you would rather not see."
As they walked, the mirrors flickered. Instead of her reflection, Elara saw herself in countless ways — as a child, as a corpse, as a bride swallowed by shadows.
She gasped, clutching her chest. "What—what is this?"
The Shadow King stopped in the center of the hall. His silver eyes glowed brighter. "My curse."
The mirrors rippled. Darkness poured from his body, writhing like smoke, curling around his arms, his chest, his throat.
His skin cracked with lines of shadow, spreading like veins. His face twisted, beautiful and terrible, as horns of black bone pushed through his hair. His voice deepened, vibrating through the glass.
"At midnight, I am no man. I am the curse itself."
The mirrors screamed, shattering one by one as his power surged.
Elara stumbled back, fear clawing at her heart. Yet, instead of fleeing, she took a trembling step closer.
"Does it hurt?" she whispered.
His monstrous gaze snapped to her, stunned. No bride had ever asked that.
"Yes," he growled. "It is agony."
Her chest ached. He was terrifying — but also… tragic.
Her hand lifted before she could stop herself, reaching toward him.
The shadows surged like a wave, roaring, snapping at her fingers with fangs of black smoke.
"Elara!" His voice thundered. "Stay back—"
But it was too late. The shadows struck—
And the world went black.