All Chapters of The Wedding Night Curse: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

Alika’s POVThey didn’t touch me with human hands.Those hands were cold, slick like wet roots, creeping from the walls, the floor, even the ceiling. They came in silence, surrounding me in a tight circle. I knew I had to fight back—I knew this wasn’t a dream, nor a delusion. But my body was frozen. Not because of fear. But because they touched parts of me that were invisible.The wedding spirits.They didn’t speak. They didn’t offer any warnings. They simply… bowed their heads. One by one, they crept out from the shadows, wearing tattered wedding gowns, some still bound with the sacrifice threads that had never been severed. In their eyes was darkness that couldn’t be explained. And an agreement that couldn’t be undone.They brought the crown.No longer the crown of blood. But something older. More ancient. Made of bone wrapped in human hair and shattered jade fragments. It fit perfectly on my head, as if it had been made f

The air inside the Mirror Altar didn’t move. It didn’t breathe. It only pulsed.Ethan stood at the edge of the obsidian floor, his form flickering between shadow and substance. He no longer belonged to the living—but wasn’t entirely dead either. He was caught in-between, half-spirit, half-memory, adrift in a place where time had thinned.The altar had let him through only because it no longer recognized his heartbeat.Or maybe… because it still remembered his blood.The walls surrounding him weren’t made of stone anymore. They were mirrors—layers of endless reflections of himself staring back. Some younger, some older, some with hollow eyes or mouths stitched shut. Not one of them looked whole.None of them were truly him.His physical body was elsewhere—sealed, fading. If he didn’t act now, he wouldn’t be able to return.He moved slowly, careful not to stare too long at the mirrors. The altar was alive. It fed on guilt, on hesitation—and Ethan Blackwell had more than enough of both.

Alika’s POV…before I could speak his name—the altar floor cracked.And from the chasm below, a hand reached up.Cold.Male.And a voice followed, faint but piercing:“Don’t.”The ceiling of the altar crumbled with it, as if the ground itself had been holding its breath. A red dust filled the air like blood mist, catching in my throat. I collapsed to my knees, the stone biting into my skin.He stood frozen—Ethan, or what claimed to be him. One hand still outstretched toward me, caught mid-motion like a broken statue. He didn’t move.But something was moving below.A pulse.A glow.My hand, trembling, reached toward the jagged fissure. The spirits hissed around me, trying to pull me back, but they were slow—or maybe uncertain. I slipped through the crack before they could stop me. The ground gave way. I fell.Fell through nothingness, through a silence that pressed against my ribs until I thought they’d crack. I closed my eyes and let the void take me.When I opened them again, I was

Alika’s POVI woke up at a table that shouldn't exist.The room was silent. But not peaceful.The table was long, endless, stretching across what felt like the spine of death itself. Black candles burned at its edges, casting no warmth—only pale light, like something bleeding from bone.At the far end, my chair was the only one still empty.And across from me—The brides.Twelve of them.Seated in silence, faces veiled in blood-stained lace, like corpses prepped for display. They didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. But they weren’t completely gone. Not here.One by one, they turned to face me.And together, they spoke—not with voices, but something deeper:"Welcome, final bride."I didn’t sit. My hand trembled as I touched the back of the chair. My voice barely came out. “What is this?”They didn’t answer at first.One of them—the one seated closest—lifted the lid from the plate before her. Steam burst upward. The smell hit instantly.Flesh.Cooked with strange herbs, too sweet, too sharp. B

Alika’s POVI stood in the middle of nothing.No sky. No ground. No color.Just me… and three doors looming in front of me, each made of something that felt more than wood or metal.The first said PAST. It was gray, covered in claw marks, like it had been attacked again and again by something desperate.The second—PRESENT. A mirror. My reflection kept changing. One moment I looked fifteen, the next I was bleeding, crying, holding something broken in my hands.The third—FUTURE. This door was pitch black, and even though it was shut, I could hear a sound leaking from behind it—a low, guttural groan. Familiar. Almost human.I stepped forward.No voices. No Sybilla. No Ethan.Only me.And the knocking.Three times.Soft. Deep. Like it came from behind my own ribs.I reached for the third door—future.The moment I touched it, it creaked open.—I didn’t see the sword first.I saw myself.Standing tall in a wedding gown, spine straight, arms strong. My face wasn’t afraid anymore. It was col