Incense curls through the nave of St. Jude’s like grey ghosts, heavy with the scent of old iron and cold lilies. Anouk tracks the grooms through her viewfinder, the mechanical click of her shutter the only human sound against the cathedral’s suffocating silence. On the dais, Lord Tomas Vossard stands in crimson and gold, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over the woman he is meant to bind to his house forever. Beside him, Lord Mihail Iliescu watches the ceremony with the stillness of a predator, his raven hair stark against the storm-silver of his coat.
They should be looking at the bride. Sora Iliescu is a vision in white silk, yet the air in the room has shifted, turning thick with a sudden, predatory electric charge. Anouk freezes, her finger hovering over the shutter. The copper smell of her own blood—the tiny nick on her thumb she hadn't noticed until now—seems to scream in the quiet. Both men turn their heads in a slow, synchronised motion, their eyes igniting with a recognition that has nothing to do with the woman at their side.
The ritual stops. Tomas’s hand lifts from Sora’s waist, and he steps down from the dais toward Anouk, his gaze locking directly onto her lens.
