Page 18 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
Selene clings to Dorian’s steady arm as they ascend the temple steps. She glances at the building—a modest, ivy-covered chapel tucked between Thornmere’s narrow, cobbled streets. Its walls are old, weathered stone, withtendrils of ivy clinging like threads of green lace. The stained-glass windows are simple, their muted greens and blues barely catching the dawn light.
Inside, the temple is hushed, a few small candles flickering and casting soft shadows over rows of plain wooden pews. It is a world away from her first wedding, where every inch of the grand hall was bathed in golds and reds. Chandeliers scattered dazzling light across hundreds of faces, and the air buzzed with murmurs and anticipation, an endless sea of guests watching her every step.
Here, the silence feels vast.
Selene thinks of the other temple she glimpsed in the darkness when she was close to death—the one shrouded in shadows, its stone walls etched with symbols she couldn’t decipher. Which god was it meant for?
It can’t have been Aurelis, the Silver Star. She saw no stars or owls, the symbols typically associated with him. Nor was there any water, so it can’t have been Liriel, the Keeper of Waters. Vannor, the Flameforger, is out of the question entirely. Perhaps it was some version of the Green Mother, Veridia, the goddess of harvest and fertility, though it seems strange to have found her temple in such a cold, remote place.
Or perhaps it was some ancient, forgotten goddess from a long-ago time.
Selene shudders at the thought. Does she really want to know? Does she truly want to revisit that night?
She brought you back to life. Don’t you want to know why?
The voice inside her is relentless, and she wants nothing more than to silence it. She has been given a second chance. She doesn’t want to think about that night—or about the past at all.
At the altar, the priest waits. He is a short, balding man with a warm yet slightly puzzled smile. His simple robe ismeticulously clean and adorned with a modest silver star—the symbol of Aurelis. He gives them both a kind nod and a curious glance, his gaze lingering on Selene for a moment longer. His expression softens as he studies her.
“Lady Selene, this union is of your own will?” he asks gently, his low voice echoing in the quiet space.
“Yes,” Selene replies, striving to keep the tremor from her voice. Her hand tightens on Dorian’s arm as she speaks. He gives her arm a reassuring squeeze in return.
The priest nods in understanding and begins the marriage rites. His voice is soft and unwavering, but Selene’s mind flits back to her former life, standing in Roselune Abbey’s vast, gilded hall. She had been a showpiece then. Every gaze had carried expectation; every movement had been weighed with meaning.
Now, as the priest recites the vows, she is suddenly thrown back to that day. The words come unbidden—ones she has spoken once before:What the Gods bring together, no mortal may temper. Let you be true and steadfast in your devotion, until death tears you apart.
A wave of panic rises in her chest, and her breath catches as she fights to keep her focus on the present. She tries to ground herself in Dorian’s presence.
He’s not the Duke,she tells herself.He’s not the Duke, not the Duke, not the Duke—
But she doesn’t know him and so much is uncertain and why is she doing this in the first place—
Until death, death, death—
She has died once already. This marriage is to save her from meeting the same fate, but what if it doesn’t?
Dorian’s arm shifts slightly, enough to break her spiralling thoughts. She clings to it, managing to steady her breathing.
The priest’s voice lulls as he reaches the conclusion of the ceremony. Selene catches his question just in time. “I will,”she whispers, the words feeling like a promise not only to Dorian but to herself. Shewilltry to put the past behind her. Shewilltry to be grateful for this second chance—
She will try not to be afraid.
“May the Divine Four bless you,” the priest finishes.
There are no cheers, no ringing bells, only the quiet smile of the priest and the firm warmth of Dorian’s hand closing around hers.
“There,” says Dorian. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”
Selene doesn’t know what to say to that. They are supposed to seal the union with a kiss. She leans across, just a fraction, but Dorian is quicker. He plants a chaste kiss on her cheek instead.
Selene feels grateful for that, though not much else.
The hour-long drive towards Ebonrose Hall is a quiet one, marked only by the rhythmic clop of hooves and the occasional jostle of the carriage. Morning sunlight bathes the rolling hills and dense woods lining the path, casting everything in a soft golden glow. Mist clings to the dew-covered grass, hanging in wispy tendrils over the landscape as if reluctant to release the night entirely.
Dorian sits across from Selene, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery. The pale light filtering through the window only accentuates the ghostly pallor of his face.
“You’ve never been to Ebonrose Hall, have you?” he asks, breaking the silence.
