Blackouts were standard field protocol. I had spent enough tours in windowless concrete bunkers to navigate by boot heel and wall friction, so losing the lanterns hardly rated as a setback. The true nuisance was the heavy thumping, which settled into dragging strides that vibrated up through the pavers.
“Husband!”
Before I could even register the new sound pattern, a cold, slender hand clamped around my arm. Su Qiaoyue, the bride, had no trouble navigating the pitch. Her grip bit into my bicep, dragging me forward with frantic force that was merely inconvenient.
“Keep your volume down,” I muttered, lengthening my stride to match hers. “Don’t invite the patrol.”
Her veiled head tilted, a faint rustle of silk in the oppressive gloom. “They seek those who wander. We must find… shelter.” Her voice, usually a soft murmur, had an edge of possessiveness I was growing accustomed to. She wasn’t worried about us being caught; she was worried about *me* being caught *away from her*.
She bypassed the perimeter ditches, towing me across the gravel grounds past the stiff, painted figures toward the grandest pavilion on the terrace. Musty cedar and dead incense thickened in the air.
“The Bridal Suite,” she murmured against my ear as she threw back the carved cypress doors. “No one enters here. It is private.”
I stepped through the threshold. Silken brocade curtains and a lacquered canopy bed took shape against the gloom. The dead air tasted of crushed jasmine and copper scrapings.
“Well, isn’t this cozy?” I quipped, patting the wall next to me. It felt like polished stone, cold beneath my palm. “Though I prefer a cot and a good field tent, personally. Less… mummified.”
Qiaoyue bypassed the banter. She slipped inside, swung the leaves shut, and dropped an oak bar across the brackets. “The watch cannot step over this threshold,” she whispered, her breath brushing my collarbone. “It is consecrated.”
I sighed, running a hand over my jaw. “Right. Blessed. What, with stale air and the lingering scent of forgotten vows?”
Slender fingers found mine, sliding between my knuckles with smooth, frigid precision. “No. With our wedding.” Her thumb grazed my wrist bone. “You are safe, husband. With me.”
Her protectiveness was escalating, and I needed to defuse it. Not for my safety, but to prevent her from doing something truly catastrophic. I knew from the rule list that ‘pacifying the Bride’ was a key element, often granting bonus points or averting disasters. Her current state felt less ‘pacified’ and more ‘actively territorial.’
“Well, if I’m truly safe, then you don’t need to hold me quite so tightly, do you?” I pulled my hand gently free, then fumbled for the thick, braided red sash I still wore around my waist – the groom’s sash. It was a purely ceremonial piece, but a thought sparked.
“Take this,” I said, offering the cord. Her skin brushed mine as she accepted it, the weave retaining body heat despite her sub-zero chill. “A pledge of fidelity. To keep you tethered.”
Her head tilted, a sound like dry leaves rustling. “A token?”
“Indeed,” I murmured, guiding her hands. “Hold out your wrists.”
She hesitated for a moment, then did as instructed. I took the sash, wrapping it once around her left wrist, then her right, tying a simple knot – not too tight, not too loose. It was a classic, albeit slightly morbid, symbol of binding. For a yandere ghost, it was practically a love letter.
[Excellent! Player Nie Wanshan earns 50 Survival Points for 'Bridal Pacification: Symbolic Binding'! Ratings spike!]
The Director’s voice boomed, startling even me. Qiaoyue’s head snapped up, the veil rustling. A soft, satisfied hum escaped her. The binding worked. Her hands, now tied together by the red sash, remained still, a placid stillness that was far more unnerving than her previous agitated movements. She looked down at the sash, then back at me, her unseen eyes likely burning holes through the veil.
“Now,” I said, stepping toward the room’s lone arrow slit, reinforced by timber bars. “Let’s monitor the sentries.”
I pressed an eye to the gap. Mist churned over the gravel. The heavy plodding came nearer, backed by low, wet rattling from the outer gate.
Out on the northern terrace, Nie Jiao crouched behind a collapsed brick partition, cradling a wide-mouthed kimchi jar.
She heard it first: a faint, high-pitched whine, like a stressed servo motor. Then, a barely perceptible ripple in the fog, a subtle distortion of the air itself. It was the invisible drone, one of the Eldritch Broadcast Network’s ubiquitous, bloodthirsty camera-eyes. She had glimpsed one briefly in a flash of lightning during the earlier courtyard scramble, and she hadn’t forgotten its signature shimmer.
Jiao held her breath. The whine climbed in pitch as the temperature dipped. The distortion drifted along the brickwork, barely twelve inches out. She lunged, not at the blur, but at the vacuum trailing it, slamming the clay vessel over the focal point. The metal housing collided with the glazed interior in a loud clatter, gears shrieking as the unit bucked.
Jiao slammed a paving fragment over the rim. The ceramic vibrated with frantic whining, but the seal held. She drew her cracked phone, shielded the LCD glare, and logged the optical distortion. “One captured,” she murmured, testing the seal. “Now to crack the bus protocol.”
Back inside the suite, I kept watch through the slat. The perimeter sweep remained a haze of lumbering silhouettes, their guttural wails echoing off the tiled roofs. Then my line of sight hit the flagstones, scanning past the rigid paper effigies.
Ding Peizhi stood exposed on the open tiles. He showed no intention of ducking for cover. Floating dead center in front of him hovered a broad, multi-jointed drone three times the size of the scout lenses, its optical cluster glowing dull crimson. Peizhi tilted his ear toward its casing, listened, and gave a sharp military nod with a thin grin. My squadmate was briefing the broadcast crew.