It rose from the centre of the capital like a wound dressed in opulence—gargoyles screaming gold tears, arches bleeding with gilded saints, pews carved from lacquered bone. Every stone polished. Every surface gleamed. It was a cathedral designed to blind.
And on this day, it was to host a wedding.
The King was marrying his beloved. His husband. The court called it historic. The priests called it divine. The people called it spectacle. They arrived in a procession soaked in crimson. Musicians lined the aisle. Choirs, pale and trembling, sang songs they hadn’t rehearsed—songs no one remembered writing. The groom’s eyes never left the King’s.
Not once. Guests smiled. Bowed. Curtsied. But no one spoke above a whisper. And beneath the gold and incense, something else stirred. A heat. A hum. Like the church itself was remembering something old. The priest’s voice cracked on the opening words.
“Do you come here freely?”
The King answered, “With all I am.”
His husband nodded. “And more.”
The doors slammed shut. Candles sputtered.
The gold began to weep. Drips fell from the ceiling. From the statues. From the groom’s own crown. Liquid gold—hot, reeking, hissing as it touched skin. No one moved. The King reached for his husband’s hand. It wasn’t there. He turned.
His husband stood frozen, eyes wide, mouth twitching—not in fear. In effort. He was mouthing something.
"Don’t look away."
The choir sang louder, off-key, frantic. The melody reversed itself. The notes tore open the silence. Guests began to sway, not of their own will. The pews groaned. A voice—booming, layered, ancient—filled the cathedral.
“You called it sacred.”
The King fell to his knees. His husband dropped beside him, whispering into his ear.
“They don’t like joy. Not here. Not when it’s real.”
The altar cracked. From its centre, a column of light shot upward, splintering the dome. Gold peeled back, revealing flesh beneath. Not brick. Not stone. Skin.
The church was alive.
And it did not approve.
The court screamed. The choir melted. The light pulsed like breath. And at the heart of it, two men held each other. They didn’t speak vows.
They simply held on.
As the Golden Church closed its doors for the last time. And whispered,