The air changed immediately.
His presence shifted closer—not rushed, but undeniably darker now, like something restrained had begun to press against its boundaries.
“You carry my name now. The least you can do is pay your respects to the woman who should still be carrying it. For the last time, I am not asking. Kneel.”
I meant to refuse again.
I truly did.
The word was already rising in my throat—small, sharp, defiant—but it never made it past my lips.
Before my pride could gather itself into resistance, my body betrayed me.
My knees gave way.
The impact against the ground was humiliating—sand and rough earth biting through the thin silk of my wedding gown.
Grains pressed into my skin through the fabric, sharp enough to register every inch of contact.
My hands shot forward instinctively, catching myself before I collapsed completely, palms sinking into dry, uneven soil.
I clenched my jaw so tightly it hurt.
I hated this.
Hated him.
Hated the dead woman beneath me.
For a moment, I just stayed there.
Kneeling.
Breathing.
Blind in a place I could not see, only feel—open air stretching endlessly around me, wind moving like a witness that refused to speak.
My throat tightened.
I wasn’t supposed to be here.
Not in this place.
Not in this position. Not like this.
Tears stung my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.
I had learned early in life that crying didn’t change outcomes. It only made you easier to break.
