Cold. That was the first thing I noticed. A deep, bone-aching cold that felt like it was seeping into my very core. Not just 'forgot-to-pay-the-heating-bill-again' cold, but the kind of cold that felt ancient and empty. Like warmth was a forgotten concept here.
My head throbbed. A dull ache, familiar but somehow more profound. Like my brain had been unplugged and then, instead of putting it back in, someone stuck it in a freezer.
I tried to shift. I was lying on something soft but stiff. Velvet. Black velvet. Of course it was. My life had officially taken a dramatic, gothic turn into a Tim Burton movie set. Probably rated PG-13 for existential dread and questionable fashion choices.
I pushed myself up slowly, blinking against the gloom. The air smelled faintly of dust and something else… something like ozone and distant graveyards. Charming. I was definitely not in my apartment anymore. Unless my landlord had gotten really ambitious with the redecorating and skipped straight to 'haunted mansion chic.'
Dim light filtered through tall, arched windows draped in heavy, dark fabric. The room was enormous, high-ceilinged. It was filled with furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum. A museum dedicated to 'Things That Look Fancy But Are Probably Uncomfortable.' Carved wood, dark stone. Shadows clung to every corner like unwelcome guests.
And whispers. Still the whispers. Low and murmuring, just at the edge of hearing. Like someone was constantly having a very private, very creepy conversation nearby. It was starting to get on my nerves.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Where was I? How did I get here? The mirror. The shadows. Being pulled through. It hadn't been a dream. It had been… an express trip through my bathroom mirror. And frankly, the amenities sucked. Zero stars on Yelp for this place.
Before I could fully freak out – which was high on the agenda – I noticed I wasn't alone.
Standing across the vast room, near one of the tall windows, was a man. Tall. Impossibly tall. And pale. Not just pale, but like moonlight on fresh snow pale. He wore clothes so dark they seemed to drink the light, tailored perfectly to his lean, imposing frame. He looked like he walked out of a GQ photoshoot for the apocalypse.
His face… okay, objectively? Sinfully gorgeous. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, a mouth that looked like it was carved from marble. But his eyes…
They weren't empty. They were the opposite. Like staring into a night sky *full* of stars. Bottomless, impenetrable black, yes, but holding entire galaxies within them. They held no human warmth. Yet, I felt the weight of his gaze on me, heavy and intense. Like a cosmic spotlight. And somehow, even with all the impending doom vibes, that was infinitely more interesting than the vacant stares I usually got from casting directors.
He wasn't moving. Just watching me. Standing there in the oppressive silence of the gothic ballroom I'd apparently materialized in. My sarcastic shield snapped into place on pure instinct. If I was going down, I was going down with a witty retort.
"Alright, tall, dark, and brooding," I announced, my voice a little shaky but surprisingly clear. "Care to explain why I'm in what looks like a haunted mansion, and not, you know, my apartment?"
He didn't react immediately. Just kept those unsettling, star-filled eyes fixed on me. The silence stretched, thick and awkward. My pulse pounded. I could practically hear my soul screaming, "Run, you idiot!" But my feet were rooted.
Then, a slow, almost imperceptible smile spread across his face. It wasn't warm. It was the kind of smile a predator gives right before it asks if you'd like to try the artisanal, free-range human snacks. It was unsettling. And, infuriatingly, it did weird, fluttery things to my insides. Hormones, you absolute traitors. Did we not just agree to panic?
"Your current location is... precise," he replied, his voice low, resonant, like a cello played in a cavern. Chillingly calm, every word deliberate. No warmth, no human empathy. But then, as he finished, something in the coldness of his voice seemed to crack, just for a millisecond. A fleeting echo of something raw. It was intoxicating. "You speak rather loudly for one newly initiated into silence, Soulbinder."
"Soulbinder?" I scoffed, pushing myself fully upright. My legs felt shaky. "Is that your agency's cheesy nickname for models? Because honestly, it's not working for me. And 'initiated into silence'? Dude, I was just minding my own business, waiting for a bus!"
He took a step towards me, gliding across the floor like he wasn't touching it. Every movement was fluid, silent. A faint shimmer, almost like heat haze, seemed to follow his movements. Static… glitch… my latent trait screamed. "Your spirit… it vibrates with questions," he observed, those dark eyes unblinking. "A common mortal affliction."
"It's called curiosity, pal," I shot back. "And it's usually followed by answers, not cryptic pronouncements. So, where are we? And who are you? Because the guy who signed me up for this—Lucien—he vanished into thin air."
"Lucien is… an administrator," he stated, a subtle shift in his posture. "His purpose is merely to facilitate transitions. As for this location… it is simply the nearest point of contact."
"Nearest point of contact for what?" I pressed, crossing my arms. "A photoshoot? Because I'm warning you, if this involves a gothic graveyard background and me looking 'haunted,' I'm gonna be very disappointed. Lucien promised 'eternal exposure,' not an eternal residency in a spooky mansion."
He let out a soft sound. It might have been a chuckle, though it held no mirth. More like the sound of ancient stones grinding. "The 'eternal exposure' he spoke of was quite literal, Mortal. As for who I am... my name is less important than our shared circumstance. Though you may know one of my many titles."
"Oh, great. You're a secret superhero or something?" I narrowed my eyes. "Captain Cryptic? The Grand Poobah of Perpetual Gloom?"
He tilted his head slightly, that star-filled gaze still fixed on me. "I am often referred to as… the end. Or the guide. Or simply, Azrael."
Azrael? The name hung in the air, heavy and strangely familiar. Like a word from a story I'd half-forgotten. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold room. My sarcastic shield was struggling valiantly against the rising tide of sheer terror. "Okay, so, 'Azrael,' like… a biblical name? Is this some kind of really, really elaborate church retreat? Because the robes are usually optional for those."
He took another slow step closer. The air around him felt colder. He smelled faintly of rain on dry earth, and something sharp, like old iron. And then, faintly, just beneath that, the barest hint of something sweet, like dried flowers. "This is no retreat, Soulbinder. This is The In-Between. And you are here because you are bound to me."
The In-Between. Bound. That word again. And a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer seemed to follow his movements. "Bound? What, like legally bound? Or like, 'I'm stuck here forever and my combat boots don't match the decor' bound?" I tried to keep my voice light, but it was cracking.
His voice, when he spoke, seemed to deepen slightly, the cavernous resonance becoming more pronounced. "A fusion of the two, Mortal. The 'binding' is… unbreakable. It is the most fundamental clause of the pact you signed."
Unbreakable binding? This was getting worse. Way, way worse than terrible marketing copy. This sounded like… something from a really bad fantasy novel where the heroine immediately gets kidnapped. Which, ironically, was my current situation.
"Unbreakable binding?" I repeated, my voice rising slightly. "What does that even mean? Bound to you? Why? Because I signed up to have my picture taken? Are you going to make me pose with a giant hourglass or something? Is this a Death Calendar photoshoot?"
He took another step, closing the distance between us. He was close enough now that I had to crane my neck slightly to meet his gaze. Those black, star-filled eyes held a strange, quiet power that made my skin prickle. And despite the absurdity, despite the terror, that traitorous part of my brain registered just how devastatingly beautiful he was up close. Curse you, hormones, you're the absolute worst wingmen in an abduction scenario.
"It means precisely what it says, Soulbinder," he responded, his voice a low murmur that seemed to vibrate in the air around us, a deep, intimate hum. "You are bound to me, by the terms of the Soulbound Matrimony contract."
Soulbound… Matrimony? My brain stuttered. Matrimony. That meant…
No. No way. Absolutely not.
"Soulbound what now?" I stared at him, my mind reeling. "Matrimony? Are you seriously saying… I signed a marriage contract?" The sheer ridiculousness of it was almost enough to make me laugh. Almost.
He gave that unsettling smile again. It was chilling. "In a manner of speaking. It is the most complete form of binding. It anchors you to this realm, and to me. As… my wife." He said the word "wife" with a strange, ancient finality, like it was a fact etched into the fabric of time itself.
My jaw dropped. My sarcasm, my panic, everything vanished in a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated shock. Wife? He called me… his wife? Because I signed a contract for modeling while I was hangry? This was less rom-com and more cosmic prank show, and I was the main, very confused, contestant.
"Wife?!" I choked out, the word foreign and ridiculous on my tongue. "You think I signed up to be your… your wife?! With a guy named Lucien and a bleeding scroll?! Are you insane?! Because last I checked, dating me requires more than a weird legal document and a complete disregard for my free will! And usually, a lot of takeout!"
He observed my outburst. His face was unreadable, but a faint, almost imperceptible red shimmer seemed to spark in the depths of his eyes. "Your emotional responses are... predictable," he said, his voice flat. But then, a flicker of something in his composure cracked, a hint of raw amusement. "Yet, fascinating."
"Predictable?!" I shrieked. "I just married a stranger who pulled me through a mirror! What's your predictable response? A very dramatic monologue about cosmic justice? Or maybe you're going to tell me my in-laws are ghosts?"
He watched me, unblinking. "There is much to explain, Soulbinder," he finally said, the red shimmer in his eyes fading slightly, replaced by the familiar star-filled void. "And you are, after all, quite legally bound."
I looked down at the black ring on my finger. It felt heavier now. It pulsed faintly with that same cold energy as the parchment had. The crescent mark beneath it felt like a brand. Soulbound Matrimony. The unremovable ring. It all clicked into place with a sickening lurch.
I hadn't signed a modeling contract. I had signed… this. A binding. A pact. A… marriage. With… him.
He took another step back, turning towards a large, ornate mirror across the room. It was framed in dark, twisted metal, its surface shimmering faintly. A subtle distortion rippled across its surface as he approached, his reflection momentarily stretching and bending.
"Look," he said, his voice almost gentle, but with an undercurrent of undeniable command. "See the truth of the pact."
Hesitantly, my legs still wobbly, I walked towards the mirror. As I approached, my reflection came into view. But it wasn't me in my combat boots and thrift-store dress.
My reflection was wearing a gown. A long, flowing bridal gown, not white, but made of swirling, inky black smoke. It clung to my form, ethereal and terrifyingly beautiful. The black ring on my finger gleamed against the smoky fabric. My messy bun even looked impossibly elegant. Seriously, the contrast was jarring.
My eyes widened in horror. I turned back to the man. He was standing directly behind me now. His reflection appeared over my shoulder in the mirror.
And reflected there, in his hand, the hand resting lightly on my shoulder in the glass… was not a hand.
It was a scythe. Long, wicked, its blade catching the dim light with a sinister gleam. And his eyes, in the reflection, were no longer just galaxies. They pulsed with a deep, sorrowful red, holding an ancient, terrible power that filled me with absolute dread.
He was the one to whom I was bound. The one who claimed me as wife.
The one with the scythe.
The world tilted. I stared at the reflection, at the smoky dress, at the scythe, at the man who called me wife.
And the last vestiges of denial shattered. Oh, crap. I didn't just marry Death. I married Death, and he's got baggage, a scythe, and clearly needs an interior decorator. So much for just needing fries. I need a divorce lawyer from another dimension.