I Died on My Wedding Day

III: Alliance Banquet

The Grand Hall of Vaelcryss

The Great Hall of Castle Vaelcryss had been transformed.

The long oak tables that were usually filled with rough soldiers were now draped in maroon-and-silver silk cloths. Hundreds of candles in iron chandeliers illuminated the room, chasing away the shadows that once clung to the castle corners.

At the raised high table sat Lord Isolde, bearing the dignity of a war veteran despite his missing leg. Beside him, Lady Ameera smiled gently, radiating a soothing, motherly warmth. On the other side, Lucien Caelthrone reclined comfortably, his wine glass never empty, his eyes calculating as they swept across the hall.

The double doors opened.

Alaric entered, flanked by his two sisters.

Their presence drew every gaze—Alaric with his cold, commanding aura; Elodie with her wild, cheerful smile; and Eloise with her quiet elegance.

Halfway to their table, Alaric stopped.

Standing before them were two figures from the South: Rosieta, dazzling in a champagne-colored gown, and a young man Alaric had never seen before.

“Greetings, Lord Alaric,” the young man said, bowing in the elaborate Southern style—graceful, yet slightly excessive.

He straightened, revealing a handsome face with a smile as bright as a summer sun—so unlike the hard-featured men of the North.

“I am Theodore Caelthrone. It is an honor to set foot on the land of heroes,” he said, his gaze lingering briefly on Eloise.

Eloise, usually composed, felt her cheeks grow warm. She quickly looked away, yet could not stop glancing back at Theodore from the corner of her eye. He was not much older than her—perhaps fifteen—but his charisma was already striking.

“Welcome to Vaelcryss, Lord Theodore,” Alaric replied politely, though his tone remained flat.

“Enjoy the feast. If you need anything, speak to me.”

They took their seats at the long table. Platters of roasted venison, creamy mushroom soup, and warm wheat bread were served in abundance.

Yet Eloise could not focus. Her eyes kept drifting toward Theodore across the table.

“What’s wrong with you?” Elodie whispered, nudging her twin with her elbow, her mouth full of chicken.

“You look like your eyes are going to fall out from staring.”

Eloise startled and forced her face back into a calm mask.

“Do not speak nonsense, El. That man is merely… distracting to my view.”

Hearing the exchange, Alaric shook his head and leaned slightly toward Eloise.

“Be careful, Eloise. Southern men have sweet tongues. Do not be swayed by smiles alone.”

Eloise nodded obediently, though the faint blush on her ears remained.

---

A Flower Wilting in the Crowd

As the night grew deeper, the music and laughter of soldiers grew louder. But Alaric’s sharp eyes noticed something amiss.

Rosieta Caelthrone had not touched her food. Her beautiful face had gone pale, cold sweat glistening at her temples. Beside her, Theodore gently rubbed his sister’s back in concern.

Without hesitation, Alaric stood. His protective instincts took over as he walked toward the Caelthrone table.

“Lady Rosieta?” he asked softly.

“Are you well? Does the Northern food not suit your taste?"

Rosieta looked up, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears—fragile, pleading.

“Oh, Lord Alaric…” her voice was weak.

“No, the food is wonderful. I just feel… a little suffocated. I am not used to such crowds. I… I am rather introverted.”

Theodore looked at Alaric with a pleading expression.

“My sister is easily unwell when surrounded by too many people, my lord.”

“May I…” Rosieta hesitated, her trembling hand reaching for Alaric’s sleeve.

“May you accompany me to get some fresh air? I believe it will help.”

Alaric did not hesitate. He offered his large, calloused hand.

“Come, my lady.”

Rosieta took it. A faint, weak smile curved her lips—yet behind her long lashes, a hidden glint of satisfaction flashed.

---

Beneath the Frozen Sky

They stood on the second-floor stone terrace. The roof shielded them from falling snow, yet the cold still pierced to the bone. Below lay the silent white expanse of Vaelcryss, a stark contrast to the lively hall behind them.

“Do you feel better now?” Alaric asked, breaking the silence.

Rosieta nodded softly. She did not release his hand—she tightened her grip, as though it were her only source of warmth.

“Your hands are so big, Alaric,” she murmured, dropping his title.

“They feel… comforting. I never expected to feel this safe in such a strange place.”

Alaric remained silent, allowing her to speak.

Rosieta gazed at the night sky, her breath misting white.

“To be honest, I hated this engagement at first. Father said I must marry for politics, for alliances. I was afraid—afraid of being bound to a harsh man I did not know.”

She turned to him, meeting his eyes. Her gaze was deep, filled with longing crafted to perfection.

“But when I saw you… when you saved me from that bear… my heart changed. You are like a prince from the fairy tales I read—strong, yet gentle.”

Alaric felt his heart quicken. The words sounded sincere—at least to his innocent ears.

“I do not wish to force you, Alaric,” Rosieta continued, lowering her head sadly.

“I know I am only a stranger. It must be difficult to accept a woman who suddenly arrives with a marriage proposal. If you refuse… I will understand.”

Seeing the sorrow on her face, Alaric’s defenses crumbled.

Awkward yet resolute, he pulled her closer, wrapping one strong arm around her. He let her rest her head against his broad chest.

“I never intended to refuse,” he said gravely.

“At first, it was for my people. But now… I do not think you are so bad. You are the most beautiful girl I have ever met—aside from my mother and sisters.”

Rosieta laughed softly against his chest.

“You are very close to your sisters, aren’t you?”

“Very,” Alaric answered without hesitation.

“They are my world. I trained until my hands blistered to protect them. And from now on…”

He paused, looking down at the top of her head.

“You are also among those I will protect.”

Rosieta’s cheeks flushed—perhaps from the cold, or perhaps from victory. She pressed her face deeper against his chest, seeking warmth amid the snowstorm.

They stood in silence for a while. Then Rosieta’s eyes drifted to a distant mountain silhouette, shrouded in thick mist.

“What is that?” she asked, pointing.

“That is Mount Moburn,” Alaric explained.

“It was once an active volcano, but it has slept for a hundred years, buried under eternal ice.”

Rosieta’s eyes shone with wonder.

“It is beautiful… One day, I want to go there. I want to see its peak with my own eyes.”

Alaric chuckled softly.

“And with whom? You would freeze or be eaten by monsters before reaching its foot. The forest around it is dense and dangerous.”

Rosieta looked up, smiling sweetly.

“I will be with you, of course. You will accompany me, won’t you? You just promised to protect me as you protect your family.”

Alaric met that smile—the smile that would one day haunt him.

“Yes,” he said quietly, tightening his embrace as the night wind grew stronger.

“I will be with you.”

In the distance, Mount Moburn stood in silence—

a witness to a vow spoken by a knight to the venomous serpent slowly coiling around him.