The Soul’s Chorus

Chapter 19

The summons came not for Kaelen, but he followed anyway. A cold thread of worry pulled him through the quiet lanes toward the Hall of Whispers, where the elders prepared for great ceremonies. He had heard the talk. The wedding of Corbin and Chloe was no longer a distant formality. It was being woven into reality, stitch by deliberate stitch.

He stood in the shadow of a broad archway, unseen. The room was long and high ceilinged, lit by many candles. Their light danced on dark wood and woven tapestries. In the center of the room, on a low dais, stood Chloe.

And before her, held by two silent attendant women, was the gown.

It was a masterpiece. That was the first, awful thought. It was breathtaking. The fabric was a pure, winter white, so fine it seemed to drink the candlelight and glow from within. The sleeves were long, trailing. The neck was high. Thousands of tiny pearls were sewn across the bodice in patterns that mirrored the shapes of new leaves and closed buds. It was the dress of a queen from a forgotten, gentle story.

Then Corbin stepped forward. He did not look at Chloe’s face. He looked at the dress with the eyes of a strategist surveying a perfect map.

“The final fitting,” he announced, his voice filling the quiet room. “The silkworms of the Eastern Glade spun the thread. The lace was made by the sisters at the Looms of Sighing Water. It has taken a year to create.”

He gestured, and the attendants moved. They helped Chloe, who moved like a sleepwalker, out of her simple day dress. They then lifted the wedding gown. It sighed like a living thing as they lowered it over her head.

The process was slow, intimate, and grotesque. The fine fabric whispered against her skin. The attendants began to fasten the back. But this was not a simple row of buttons. It was a complex lattice of silk cords and bone clasps. As they pulled each cord, the gown did not just fit. It conformed. It tightened across her ribs with a gentle, relentless pressure.

Kaelen watched from the shadows. He saw Chloe’s breath catch as the bodice grew snug. She stood straight, forced into a posture of rigid elegance.

“Now the inner layer,” Corbin said, his voice calm and instructional.

One of the attendants brought forth a separate piece. It was a sleeveless shift, made of a slightly stiffer, cream colored fabric. They slipped it under the gorgeous gown. As it settled, Kaelen saw them. Symbols. They were embroidered along the hem, around the neckline, and most densely over the heart. The thread was a dull, greenish grey, almost invisible against the cloth.

“Wolfsbane thread,” Corbin explained, as if giving a lesson. “The plant was harvested at the dark of the moon. Ground to paste, mixed with binding oils. The runes are for purity. And for binding. They will keep any… instability… in check. They will ensure the day, and the union, remains sanctified.”

Purity and binding. The words hung in the perfumed air. The beautiful gown was a shell. This inner lining, prickling against her skin, was its true purpose. A prison made of poisoned thread.

Chloe’s face was a mask of calm. But Kaelen saw her hands, hanging at her sides, slowly curl into fists. Her knuckles were white.

The attendants returned to the outer gown, continuing their work. They used small, silver hooks to attach the trailing sleeves. They smoothed the skirts, which pooled around her feet in a rich, imprisoning cloud. With each adjustment, Chloe seemed to grow smaller inside the magnificent creation. The dress was eating her.

Finally, Corbin himself stepped forward. He held a wide belt, a cinch made of braided white leather and silver links. He walked behind her. He wrapped it around her waist, over the tight bodice. Kaelen heard the soft, cruel sound of the leather tightening. He saw Chloe’s eyes close for a second as the air was gently pressed from her lungs.

“The final bond,” Corbin said softly, fastening the clasp. It was a silver lock, shaped like a closed flower.

It was done. Chloe stood transformed. A vision of ethereal beauty. A statue of ice and pearls. She could barely take a shallow breath. She could not bend at the waist. She could only stand, or be held up by the dress’s own stiff structure.

“Walk,” Corbin instructed.

With immense effort, Chloe took a step. The skirts whispered, heavy and restricting. She took another. Her movement was not a walk. It was a slow, graceful glide, forced upon her by the tightness around her legs. She was a doll on strings, beautiful and utterly controlled.

Kaelen felt a heat rise in his throat. This was not a celebration. This was a ritual of containment. The wolfsbane runes were not for blessings. They were a ward, like the wards on the border, but turned inward. Against her. Against the silver streak, against the “instability” they feared. The dress was a beautiful, smiling prison.

Corbin nodded, satisfied. “It is perfect. It will hold.”

The hook was set, deep and barbed. Kaelen understood now. The wedding was not just a joining. It was a sealing. Corbin, the steadfast Warden, was using the oldest magic of their people binding magic, protective runes to lock away the mystery he did not understand. He was treating Chloe like a breach in the border. Something to be fortified, sealed up, and controlled.

As the attendants began the careful process of unfastening the lattice of cords, Kaelen slipped away from the archway. The image was burned into his mind: Chloe, drowning in white, surrounded by symbols of poison meant to keep her own soul in check.

He thought of the warm resonance of the Song. He thought of her mother’s whisper. That was a music of freedom, of deep connection. This dress, with its hidden, prickling runes, was the opposite. It was silence. It was a gag made of lace and fear.

The path before him was now a cliff edge. To follow protocol was to let that silver lock click shut forever. To act was to challenge Corbin, the elders, and the very traditions that held Silvathorne together. The dress was more than fabric and thread. It was a declaration. And as he walked away, the faint, warm hum in his chest, the Souls’ Chorus, throbbed with a new, urgent rhythm. It was not a song of peace anymore. It was a pulse, a drumbeat of warning. The beautiful prison was ready. And the ceremony to place her inside it was coming.