The Umeziri library was the size of a cathedral.
Zina hadn't meant to wander in—she was following the sound of music. A slow piano tune, echoing faintly through the eastern halls. But the moment she stepped inside, the music stopped.
And the doors closed behind her.
No staff. No light but a single flickering chandelier overhead.
Thousands of books lined the shelves, many coated in dust.
She wasn't looking for anything.
Until she found it.
A black leather ledger.
Tucked between encyclopedias on Nigerian nobility.
No title on the cover. Just the family crest.
She opened it. Pages of neat handwriting in black ink.
Each entry began with a name.
Then a date.
Then a symbol.
Then one line:
Bride Accepted.
Bride Deceased.
Zina's chest tightened.
> Grace Ikenna Umeziri – March 4th, 1904 – Deceased.
Adesuwa Efe Umeziri – August 22nd, 1931 – Deceased.
Fatima Musa Umeziri – July 18th, 1955 – Deceased.
Chioma Nwankwo Umeziri – February 10th, 1983 – Deceased.
Twelve names.
Twelve women.
Twelve deaths.
And then—
A thirteenth blank line.
Her breath caught. Her own name hadn't been written yet.
Zina Obianuju —
Empty. Waiting.
She flipped back through the earlier pages.
Each bride's symbol was different—a star, a flame, a wing, a scale.
Each had a brief scribble beneath the death date.
> "Opened the east wing."
"Spoke his name after sunset."
"Touched the mirror."
"Fell in love."
Zina closed the book carefully.
Suddenly, the chandelier above crackled.
A gust of air blew across the room. Candles went out.
The piano began playing again—this time from inside the room.
She turned sharply.
No one.
The music was playing itself.
She backed toward the door, trying to stay calm.
But something had changed.
The house knew she had seen the ledger.
And it was watching
🕯️ Back in the Bedroom
Kain was there.
Sitting in a chair by the fire, silent.
"You found it," he said. It wasn't a question.
Zina nodded slowly. "Why twelve? Why not stop after the first one?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then he said, "Because the curse requires thirteen."
She stared at him.
"And what happens when it gets thirteen?"
He looked into the fire, his face unreadable.
"It ends."
"But what ends? The curse? Or… me?"
Still, he didn't answer.
Zina sat on the edge of the bed, the sigil on her hand now glowing faintly in the dim room.
If I survive, I break it.
If I fail, I finish it.
Either way, she was the final bride.
🕯️ Later That Night – Dreams That Aren't Hers
Sleep didn't come easily.
When it did, it came with thorns.
Zina dreamed of the twelve women—lined up in a circle, all dressed in black gowns, their faces turned away from her. She recognized the painting from the east wing. The first wife stood in the center, whispering words Zina couldn't hear.
When she stepped closer, one of the women turned.
Her face was hollow.
Her eyes… mirrors.
Each of them turned, one by one, until Zina stood in the middle of twelve brides—faces warped, twisted, whispering in a language that curled in her ears like smoke.
> "You are the last."
> "You are the key."
> "You are not meant to survive."
She tried to run, but the floor beneath her cracked open like glass.
She fell through darkness.
And woke up screaming.
🕯️ Back in the Real World
The room was cold, though the fire was still burning.
Kain hadn't moved. His eyes were closed—but she knew he wasn't asleep.
"Why haven't you written my name in the book?" she asked him, voice hoarse.
He opened his eyes.
"Because I'm still deciding what you are," he said.
She turned toward him. "What do you mean?"
"You're not like the others," he replied. "They were chosen. You were… sent."
"By who?"
Kain stared at her for a long time. Then he said, "Maybe the house will tell you. Or maybe the mirror already has."
Her heart pounded in her chest. "What if I don't want to be the final bride?"
His expression was unreadable. "Then you should have read the fine print."
She lay back down, but didn't sleep again.
The mirror across the room—covered once more—seemed to pulse in the shadows. Like it was still watching. Still remembering.
And in her palm, the sigil burned soft and steady.
A countdown she couldn't see… but could feel.