The morning after the garden incident arrived like a lie wrapped in sunshine.
I blinked awake beneath silk sheets, the scent of something warm—jasmine, maybe vanilla—hanging in the air. The memories of last night clung to me like dew, but strangely, they didn't disturb me the way they should have. The statue, the black roots, the hallucination—or whatever it was—felt distant. Like a dream that slips further away the more you try to hold it.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe my mind, still raw from months of sedation and isolation, needed horror to cope with the strange calm I was being given.
I didn't tell Clora.
I didn't tell anyone.
This mansion has a way of swallowing truths and polishing lies until you forget which is which. Maybe silence was better.
That afternoon, the energy shifted. This wasn't just dress fittings or golden combs teasing my hair anymore. There was purpose now. Urgency. The air was too clean. The smiles too practiced. It felt like I'd wandered onto the set of a film just before the director yelled "action."
It was time. Time for the marriage between Luthor and this lonely orphan, time to exchange vows and just like that I entered the hall then I saw it.
The altar.
It had been built in the eastern courtyard—a white marble platform, tangled in white roses and crystal chains that shimmered in the light. The chairs were arranged in precise arcs, filled with faces I didn't recognize. Not one.
Some looked like royalty. Others wore sleek business suits or shimmering gowns stitched with thread that caught the light like metal. And so many of them wore masks. Not the whimsical kind from masquerades, but smooth, reflective ones with no expression at all. Cold. Distant.
And then there was Luthor.
He stood at the front, an obsidian suit hugging him like shadow. His hair slicked back, a hint of stubble roughening his sharp jaw. He looked… perfect. Too perfect. But his smile didn't touch his eyes. Not really.
When they brought me to him, the sun was just beginning to dip into the horizon, casting fire across the sky. My dress trailed behind me like a ghost's shadow—white, weightless, stitched with pearls I never asked for.
I didn't cry.
I didn't tremble.
I just walked, as they told me.
And when Luthor took my hands, I let him.
We didn't exchange vows. The officiant—a tall figure in violet robes with a voice like rusted bells—spoke ancient words I didn't understand. And just like that, it was done. Applause echoed, sharp and clean. Dozens of strangers clapped with eerie precision, and from somewhere above, rose petals drifted like pale ash.
---
The reception hall felt like a cathedral made of crystal and bone.
Massive chandeliers sparkled like frozen stars, casting fractured light across the marble floor. Conversations buzzed in languages I couldn't recognize. Each table had its own guard. The silverware looked like weapons more than cutlery. The goblets were so dark, I couldn't tell if they held wine or ink.
I sat beside Luthor, stiff and silent, as he poured me a drink without asking. Then he stood, glass raised high.
"To fate," he said loudly, cutting through the noise. "To chance. To things even the stars couldn't plan."
Some people chuckled. Others lifted their glasses wordlessly.
Then he started telling the story.
"She was a mystery," he said, glancing at me like I was something he'd dreamed into existence. "we were a mystery, Both ourselves lost in this dangerous world in search for identity. But instead of identity life has other plan for us, what we found was love. A love so genuine and pure.I can't believe after many years of planing I finally have you as my wife." his eyes directly fixed at me.
And my face showed a rehearse smile.
The room fell into a hush. His smile deepened even further.
"Sometimes, love isn't Claimed. It is found."
They nodded. Applauded. Some even cheered—strangely, eerily.
After holding eye contact for a while I stared down at my glass. None of this made sense. Every word he spoke was completely opposite.A lie. But here I was, married to a stranger who claimed he knew my soul.
Dinner passed like a dream I couldn't wake from—flowers soaked in something sweet and metallic, meat that melted on my tongue, and a dessert that pulsed faintly before being sliced apart like it was alive.
And then I saw her.
Across the room, a woman stood like a shadow wrapped in starlight. Her velvet gown was so dark it looked black, embroidered with gold that flickered like tiny flames. Her hair was pulled into intricate braids, jeweled pins sparkling beneath the chandelier's glow. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, maybe, but her eyes… her eyes felt older than time itself.
She walked toward me like she already knew who I was.
"Madame Elira," she said, her voice smooth and smoky. "May I borrow you for a moment?"
I glanced at Luthor, who was deep in conversation with a man wrapped in furs. He didn't see.
"Of course," I answered, standing slowly.
She led me to a quiet corner near the wine wall. Beyond the glass, the moonlit garden shimmered, eerily still.
"You look just like her," she said softly, eyes locked on mine.
"Like who?" I asked.
"The one before. The one they erased. But the soul never lies."
A chill crawled down my spine. "I… I don't think I know you."
She smiled then, a sad curve of lips. "No. But I know you. You're one of us, No you are better."
I tilted my head. "One of who?"
She leaned closer, voice a whisper. "One of the Remnants. One of the earthly Gods
One of—"
"Elira."
His voice sliced between us like a blade.
I turned, heart skipping. Luthor was there, all calm surface and cold steel underneath. He stepped between us, placing his hand gently but firmly on the small of my back.
The woman didn't flinch. Her eyes never left mine.
"I see you've met Vivienne," Luthor said smoothly. "She has a habit of speaking in riddles."
"I was only saying hello," she murmured, finally stepping back. "But of course, I'll take my leave."
She turned and glided away like a queen dismissing a room.
I opened my mouth to speak, but Luthor's hand pressed just slightly harder.
"Don't let her confuse you," he said, voice soft in my ear. "Not tonight."
"Who is she?" I asked.
"Someone who prefers fantasy to truth," he replied. "And tonight is about truth, my dear. Ours."
But the words didn't comfort me.
They clung.
As the music swelled and laughter drifted like mist, I turned one last time toward the place where Vivienne had stood.
It was empty now.
But her words remained, echoing in the hollow place behind my ribs:
You're one of us.