His hands trembled in his lap.
Her lips lingered.
The divine circle pulsed brighter.
The cathedral sang.
Then—
Rein bit his tongue.
Hard.
The pain sliced through the haze like a blade of ice.
He jerked back, gasping, blood spilling over his lower lip.
Seraphael blinked. Pulled back.
"…You resisted."
"Damn right I did."
"You bled on our wedding vow."
"That wasn't holy blood," Rein spat. "That was mine. And that kiss wasn't yours to take."
The divine circle flickered. The gold dimmed.
Seraphael stared at him.
Not angry.
Confused.
Then, softly, almost mournful:
"We'll have to start over."
She raised her hand.
The robes melted back into light.
But the door behind him was still sealed.
And the cathedral had already changed shape.
There would be no simple exit.
Not from her.
Not from a wedding written into prophecy.
The cathedral's walls no longer whispered.
They watched.
Every stone arch, every stained-glass remnant, every twisted vine carved with scripture seemed to tilt subtly inward, like the building itself had decided Rein wasn't a guest anymore.
He was part of the ceremony.
He moved slowly now, half-drenched in divine warmth, half-drained from resisting the kiss that had felt like being rewritten from the inside out.
His tongue still tasted of blood.
His hands shook, not from fear—but from how close he'd come to surrendering.
He walked down a corridor where once-mirrored windows had shattered inward. Each shard reflected a different version of him—robed, kneeling, blindfolded, blessing her.
He looked away.
Seraphael glided beside him, her feet never quite touching the floor. Her voice was soft again. Gentle.
As if nothing had just happened.
"You'll adjust soon. The vessel always fights at first."
Rein didn't answer.
He needed to find the altar again.
Or a breach in the divine circle.
Or something—anything—that wasn't scripted into a lunatic's love hymn.
But Seraphael kept pace.
"I once loved the gods," she said. "I bathed in the river of stars. They told me that love was holy—until I tried to bind it to a mortal name."
She looked at him, eyes too wide. Too bright.
"They said I was corrupted. That devotion shouldn't touch the skin."
"So they locked you in a ruin," Rein muttered. "Because you got handsy."
She smiled, small and sad.
"Because I said his name in my vows."
She stopped walking.
Rein didn't.
But her next words made him slow anyway.
"It was your name."
His stomach turned.
"That's not possible," he said. "You said it yourself—I'm flesh now."
"That's all a soul is. A story wrapped in skin. Yours always comes back to me."
He turned sharply. "If I belonged to you, I'd remember."
"You do. Every time you hesitate. Every time your mouth says 'no' and your heart stutters anyway."
She stepped forward again, fingers lightly brushing his sleeve.
"I don't need your permission. I just need your presence."
The air tightened.
The corridor sealed shut behind him.
She raised her hand.
The moss along the walls pulled away, revealing frescos beneath: depictions of a divine marriage—of her and a figure cloaked in radiant flame. A man whose face was always shrouded.
But his eyes…
They were Rein's.
"Stop rewriting me," he said quietly.
"I'm not," she said. "I'm remembering you into the shape you forgot."
"I'm not yours."
"Then why are you still here?"
Rein turned.
Tried the opposite wall.
It slid open—not to freedom, but to another chamber, lit with gold and weeping vines.
A bath of light sat in the center.
Robes. Offerings. Candles floating on mirrored water.
A temple, remade in his name.
She stepped in behind him.
"Let me purify you."
He turned, backing into the wall.
"Try again and I swear—"
"What?" she said softly. "You'll kiss me like you meant it this time?"
His hands clenched.
"You're not holy."
She smiled.
"I never was."