I Died on My Wedding Day

IV: Elsewhere

While the night wind howled beyond the outer balcony, the atmosphere inside the Great Hall remained warm, filled with the glow of thousands of candles and the scent of spilled wine.

Theodore Caelthrone, a crystal goblet in his right hand, let his gaze roam across the room. His honey-brown eyes—so like his sister Rosieta’s—came to rest on one table. There sat the two daughters of House Hildebrand.

Without hesitation, he approached. His steps were light and silent, like a great cat stalking prey—or perhaps only seeking a game.

“A beautiful night for the two loveliest flowers of the North,” Theodore greeted them, stopping beside the empty chair next to Eloise.

“May I join you? The elders’ table is far too dull for youthful conversation.”

Eloise looked up, her calm eyes meeting his without interest.

“You may sit anywhere in this hall, Lord Theodore. This is a castle, not a prison.”

“Such a sharp reply,” Theodore chuckled, not offended in the least. He pulled the chair beside Eloise and sat casually, as if he had belonged there for years.

“I merely wish to know my future family better. After all, we will soon be siblings, will we not?”

Across the table, Elodie twirled her fork in boredom, her eyes narrowing at Theodore’s face. Something tugged at her memory.

“Hey,” Elodie blurted, making him turn.

“I’ve seen your face before. Where was it? We’ve never met, right? Were you a wanted man or something?”

Theodore laughed freely, his voice bright enough to draw a few curious glances from nearby servants.

“Wanted in the hearts of women, perhaps. But you likely saw me in the portrait of the winner of the Southern Sword Tournament. The artists there tend to… exaggerate.”

Elodie’s bored expression vanished. Her fork clattered onto her plate.

“The Iron Rose Pass Tournament?” she asked eagerly, leaning forward.

“So you’re good with a sword? Are you truly skilled, or just a flashy noble?”

“Skilled enough not to die foolishly,” Theodore replied modestly, though a glint of pride shone through.

“I even carry the Whispering Blade, forged by Eldenval’s legendary smith. Its steel is so thin it whispers as it cuts the air.”

“Are you serious?!” Elodie nearly squealed, her tomboyish spirit taking over.

“Show me! Right now! I want to see if it’s better than Northern black steel.”

She was about to stand, but Theodore slowly raised a hand, stopping her, his smile widening.

“Forgive me, brave Lady Elodie, but I cannot leave this table just yet,” he said, then turned slightly toward Eloise. His gaze softened, becoming playful.

“I would hate to abandon such a beautiful lady to sit alone amid this noisy feast.”

Eloise, who had been quietly observing, let out a long breath. She set her napkin down with graceful firmness.

“I appreciate your concern, Lord Theodore,” she said coolly.

“But in truth, I would be far happier if you left me alone to enjoy the silence.”

Theodore chuckled again, shaking his head in amazement.

“Remarkable. Twins—yet fire and ice. I find the North more and more fascinating.”

They continued talking—or rather, Elodie bombarded Theodore with technical questions about Southern sword styles, while he answered patiently, occasionally casting subtle flirtations at Eloise, who responded with an icy wall.

Before long, the terrace doors opened. A gust of cold slipped in before they closed again.

Alaric and Rosieta walked back toward their table. The sight drew many gazes. Alaric—the usually ice-cold Young Lord—now slowed his stride to match Rosieta’s small steps. And Rosieta… she was wrapped in his enormous wolf-fur cloak, her cheeks flushed red.

“Well, well,” Elodie teased as they arrived.

“Look who just came back from a moonlit date. Did the snow melt from the heat of your romance?”

Rosieta smiled faintly, pulling Alaric’s cloak tighter around herself as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

“Please don’t tease me, Lady Elodie. It was freezing outside. Without Lord Alaric’s cloak, I think I would have frozen to death.”

The words sounded soft and fragile—yet Theodore, hearing them, only gave his sister a knowing smile.

Alaric pulled out Rosieta’s chair, then sat down. His heart still beat strangely. He looked around the table.

Across from him, Elodie laughed freely at Theodore’s stories. Beside him, Rosieta gazed at him with adoration. Even Eloise, though quiet, showed no obvious sign of danger.

For the first time in his seventeen years, Alaric’s once-sharp instincts dulled. The caution drilled into him by Sir Baldr slowly melted, replaced by a foreign feeling called comfort.

Maybe this isn’t so bad, he thought.

Maybe I don’t have to carry the North alone forever. Maybe there is a future where I can laugh like Elodie—or be loved like Rosieta loves me.

The thought was sweet. Intoxicating. And because of that… he let his guard down.

“Brother Alaric?”

Eloise’s soft voice shattered his pleasant dream.

He turned quickly. She was holding her forehead. The girl who was usually pale and elegant now looked white as paper.

“What is it, Eloise? Are you ill?” Alaric asked, panic rising in his voice.

Eloise shook her head weakly, blinking as if struggling to focus.

“I don’t know. My head is spinning… and my stomach feels wrong.”

“Perhaps you drank too much wine, Lady Eloise,” Theodore interjected, his tone perfectly concerned.

Eloise tried to stand, but her legs wavered. Alaric caught her arm at once.

“I… I should return to my chamber,” Eloise whispered, her breathing growing heavier.

“My premonition… it’s getting worse, Brother.”

Alaric looked at Eloise, then at Theodore and Rosieta in turn. There was nothing suspicious on their faces—only sincere worry. Yet Eloise’s words pierced his fragile happiness like a needle.

“I will summon a physician,” Alaric said firmly.

“No,” Eloise refused gently, forcing a faint smile.

“Nurse Griselda is nearby. I only need rest. Please… continue the feast. Don’t spoil the mood because of me.”

She slowly released Alaric’s hand and walked unsteadily away from the lively hall, toward the dark corridor leading to the family wing.

Alaric watched her retreating figure.

He did not know that this would be the last time he would see Eloise walk upright as the Princess of Vaelcryss.