I Died on My Wedding Day

I: Alliance of Two Houses

The pain did not come at once.

The first thing Alaric felt was the cold—not the familiar cold of the Northern wind against his face, but the cold of metal slipping between his ribs.

His breath hitched. The scent of iron mixed with the sweet aroma of rosemary flowers filled his lungs.

Alaric looked down, staring at the silver dagger whose hilt was now held by the delicate hand he had long admired. That hand did not tremble.

“L-Lady… Rosieta?” His voice came out as a hoarse whisper. Fresh blood began to seep, staining the white tunic of House Hildebrand.

The girl before him lifted her head. The innocent smile and admiring gaze she had shown for the past week were gone. Those brown irises were now cold as ice, looking at Alaric not as a lover—but as a stepping stone that was no longer useful.

Rosieta leaned close to his ear, as if to whisper sweet promises like she had on the nights before.

“The North is far too cold for someone like me, Lord Alaric,” she murmured softly, her tone as sweet as honey—yet deadly.

“And you… you are far too trusting to be a ruler.”

Rosieta twisted the dagger.

Alaric’s consciousness faded at once.

---

One Week Earlier: The Endless Winter

Vaelcryss Territory, Northern Border

The world was white.

This year’s snowstorm was not merely a natural phenomenon—it was a curse.

Inside the Great Hall of Castle Vaelcryss, tension hung heavier than the iron chandeliers above. Isolde Hildebrand, the Ruler of the North, sat in her wheelchair. Her remaining eye fixed sharply on the newly arrived guests.

Standing there, in starkontrast to the frozen stone walls, was Lucien Caelthrone of the South. He wore a warm, courteous smile—too courteous—his thick silk garments displaying the wealth of Eldenval.

“Lord Isolde,” Lucien bowed respectfully, though his eyes gleamed with cunning.

“We have heard of the North’s suffering. House Caelthrone could not remain idle while our old allies starve. Carts of grain, dried meat, and wine… all are prepared in the courtyard.”

“And what is your price, Lord Lucien?” Isolde asked, her voice heavy with authority.

Lucien smiled wider, then stepped aside, revealing a young woman behind him.

The girl walked forward. Her hair was the color of rosemary—a unique reddish brown—and her gown clung to her form with elegant curves rarely seen in the conservative North.

“A blood alliance,” Lucien answered.

“My eldest daughter, Rosieta, for your eldest son, Alaric.”

Alaric, standing beside his mother, froze.

He was used to strong women like his mother, or his tomboyish younger sister, Elodie. But Rosieta was different. She looked fragile, beautiful, and… warm. When their eyes met, Rosieta smiled shyly and lowered her gaze with grace.

Alaric’s heart—usually as calm as a frozen lake even when facing Sir Baldr’s blade—began to race uncontrollably.

What is this feeling?

It was deeply unsettling.

That afternoon, Alaric tried to escape the noise of the welcoming feast. He needed fresh air. He needed something he understood: hunting.

At the stables, he was tightening the saddle on his black stallion when light footsteps sounded over the straw.

“Does the Young Lord always flee from banquets?”

Alaric turned. Rosieta stood there, her cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Lady Rosieta,” Alaric bowed stiffly.

“Forgive me. I… received reports of a wild bear approaching the settlements. As the protector of this land, I must ensure my people’s safety.”

“A bear?” Rosieta’s eyes sparkled—not with fear, but excitement.

“Take me with you, Lord Alaric.”

Alaric frowned.

“That is impossible. The storm has only just passed, the snow is knee-deep. And… it is a bear, my lady. Not a rabbit.”

Rosieta stepped closer, closing the distance between them. She looked straight into his ruby-red eyes.

“My father says Alaric Hildebrand is the finest swordsman of his age. That not a single monster in the North can touch him,” she challenged softly.

“If you are truly that great, why fear bringing a weak girl like me? Unless… you doubt you can protect me?"

Alaric fell silent. His pride as a knight was struck. He let out a long breath, white vapor clouding the air.

“If you are even scratched, my lady, your father will have my head before I ever reach the altar.”

Rosieta laughed lightly, the sound like bells in his ears.

“I will not be hurt so easily. Do not underestimate me.”

---

The Black Pine Forest lay in silence. Only the sound of hooves broke the stillness. Alaric led his horse while Rosieta sat in the saddle, gazing around in wonder.

“The snow… it’s beautiful,” Rosieta murmured.

“In Eldenval, we only see rain.”

“This beauty is deadly, my lady,” Alaric replied coldly, his eyes scanning the bushes.

CRACK.

A branch snapped. Not by the wind.

From the shadows emerged a massive figure—a Dire Bear, three meters tall, with fur like iron wire and glowing yellow eyes. It roared, shaking the trees, making Alaric’s horse rear in panic.

“Lord Alaric!” Rosieta screamed.

The beast lunged.

In a heartbeat, Alaric moved—no panic, no hesitation.

“Down!” he shouted, yanking Rosieta from the saddle and pushing her into a safe mound of snow.

He drew his sword. The Damascus steel blade whistled through the air. As the bear’s claws swung toward him, Alaric slid low, knees gliding across the ice.

SLASH!

A clean strike to the tendon of the bear’s hind leg.

The beast roared in agony, stumbling. Alaric seized the moment—leaping, stepping off a tree trunk, and driving his sword into the vital point at the back of its neck.

Red blood splattered across the white snow.

The giant bear collapsed with a thunderous crash.

Alaric landed smoothly, flicked the blood from his blade, and sheathed it. His breathing remained steady.

He turned to Rosieta, still sitting in the snow, her face pale.

“Lady Rosieta, are you hurt?” He rushed to her, his battle-cold demeanor melting into genuine concern.

Rosieta stared at him, eyes wide. The rumors were true. The man before her was a monster in human form. And that monster… was now kneeling before her in worry.

“I… I’m just shaken,” she whispered as he helped her up.

“That was… incredible.”

“It is my duty,” Alaric replied stiffly, though his ears reddened.

“There is an old hunting cabin nearby. We must warm ourselves before returning.”

---

Inside the small wooden cabin, the fireplace flared to life, chasing away the biting cold.

Alaric draped his thick fur cloak over Rosieta. She nearly disappeared inside it, looking even smaller. In the corner, Alaric skillfully began skinning the bear.

“In Eldenval…” Rosieta spoke, watching his strong back.

“The air is always warm. Flowers bloom all year.”

“That sounds like paradise,” Alaric said quietly.

“The opposite of this frozen hell.”

“It is not hell if you are with the right person,” Rosieta replied softly.

Alaric turned. Firelight bathed her face in gold.

“If you come to Eldenval someday, Lord Alaric… I will take you to my favorite tavern. They have the finest honey wine,” she smiled, sincere and promising.

“We can swim in my private pool. The water is warm—unlike here. You won’t need to stay alert all the time. You can… rest.”

The word rest struck Alaric’s chest.

All his life, as the North’s heir and protector, he had never known rest.

Without realizing it, he set his knife aside and sat across from her.

“Does… a place like that truly exist for someone like me?” he asked softly.

Rosieta crawled closer, gazing into his now-soft ruby eyes.

“It does,” she whispered.

“I will show it to you. We will build this alliance, Alaric. You and I.”

That night, in a small cabin amid the snowstorm, Alaric Hildebrand felt a warmth he had never known. He felt understood. He felt wanted.

He did not know that this warmth was a spider’s web—slowly being woven around his neck.q