Betrayed Bride's Escape

The words "I do" had barely left my lips when the world exploded into golden light.

One moment I was standing at the altar of St. Mary's Cathedral, my hands trembling as I held Dante's warm fingers, the familiar scent of lilies and candle wax filling my lungs. The next, a brilliant radiance erupted from nowhere, swallowing everything—the stained glass windows, the rows of guests in their Sunday best, even Dante's face inches from mine.

My wedding dress whipped around my legs as if caught in an impossible wind. The golden light wasn't just bright; it was alive, pulsing through my veins like liquid fire. I tried to scream Dante's name, but the sound died in my throat as the light consumed everything I'd ever known.

Then, silence.

Cold stone pressed against my knees. The acrid smell of torch smoke replaced the sweet church incense. My heart hammered against my ribs as I blinked away the lingering afterglow, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

We were no longer in Kansas—or anywhere remotely familiar.

Massive stone pillars stretched toward a vaulted ceiling painted with faded medieval frescoes. Tapestries depicting battles and heraldic beasts hung from walls that looked like they'd been standing for centuries. And surrounding us in a perfect circle were at least thirty people dressed in elaborate period costumes, their faces a mixture of shock, fear, and fascination.

"What in God's name..." Dante's voice came from beside me, rough with confusion.

I turned to find him pushing himself up from the floor, his black tuxedo a stark contrast against the ancient stone. His dark hair was disheveled, his usually confident expression replaced by bewilderment that mirrored my own.

"Clara? Dante?" Mercy's voice wavered from my other side. She sat in a pool of pale blue bridesmaid silk, her carefully styled blonde curls now wild around her shoulders. "Where are we?"

Before any of us could answer, one of the costumed figures stepped forward—a tall man with graying hair and a golden circlet resting on his brow. His rich purple robes rustled as he moved, and when he spoke, his accent was thick and archaic.

"By the saints," he breathed, his eyes wide with wonder. "The prophecy speaks true. They have come, as foretold, clothed in garments of another realm."

Prophecy? I struggled to my feet, my wedding dress's train catching on the rough stone. The weight of dozens of stares pressed down on me as I took in our surroundings more carefully. This wasn't some elaborate wedding prank or themed venue. The wear on these stones was real. The smell of unwashed bodies and burning rushes was authentic. The way these people looked at us—with genuine awe and terror—told me everything I needed to know.

We weren't in the twenty-first century anymore.

"The three who shall herald the new age," another voice intoned from the crowd. A woman in nun's robes clutched a wooden cross to her chest. "Delivered unto us by divine light on the