I Died on My Wedding Day

IX: Pascale's Confessions'2

The candles in Alaric’s study had melted halfway down, casting long shadows that danced across the stone walls.

There, a small tribunal was in session. Alaric sat upon his high-backed chair, his face half-buried in shadow. To his right, Sir Baldr stood tall with his arms crossed. And before them stood Pascale—a petite young girl in an oversized servant’s uniform.

“Say it, Pascale,” Alaric commanded, his voice low.

Pascale bowed deeply, her expression flat, as if she were discussing a dinner menu rather than espionage.

“I successfully infiltrated the west-wing guest chamber during the guard shift change, my lord. I disguised myself as a laundry maid,” Pascale began calmly. “The room was empty. Lord Theodore was not there.”

“Empty?” Sir Baldr interjected.

“Yes, sir. The guards said Lord Theodore felt ‘unwell’ and requested to move to a warmer guest room on the lower floor. He also ordered all the clothes from his old wardrobe to be discarded or burned because he claimed they were ‘bad luck.’”

Alaric scoffed. “Changing rooms and destroying evidence. Classic. So, what did you recover from the trash?”

Pascale reached into her apron pocket and took out a bundle wrapped in scrap cloth. Carefully, she unfolded it on Alaric’s desk. Inside lay a piece of maroon velvet—clearly torn from a luxurious cloak.

“When I sorted through the laundry, I detected a strong perfume scent. Golden Musk,” Pascale explained. “It’s commonly used by Southern nobility—nothing strange, nothing intoxicating.”

“Then?” Alaric pressed.

“Then I noticed this.” Pascale pointed to a strange stain on the fabric. It was transparent, visible only because the velvet there had turned stiff and greasy. “At first, I thought it was hair oil. But when I touched it…”

She raised her right hand. Alaric and Sir Baldr leaned in.

The tips of Pascale’s index and middle fingers were severely reddened. The skin had peeled away, revealing raw pink flesh beneath, as if scalded by boiling water.

“It burns and feels hot, my lord,” Pascale reported without blinking, as if the pain did not belong to her. “It is corrosive.”

“Gods,” Sir Baldr hissed, staring at the cloth in horror. “If a dried stain alone can peel skin… imagine if it entered the body.”

Alaric stared at the velvet with murderous intensity. He leaned forward, intending to smell it himself.

“Careful, my lord!” Sir Baldr warned sharply, holding him back. “Do not inhale too closely. The fumes may still be dangerous.”

Alaric stopped, yet his sharp senses had already caught the scent. Beneath the metallic odor of corrosion lingered a familiar sweetness—an expensive perfume.

“It smells the same as the one Rosieta wears,” Alaric murmured.

“That is Golden Musk, my lord. Nearly all Caelthrone nobles and their allies use it. Strong, luxurious,” Sir Baldr explained, using iron tongs from the fireplace to lift the cloth. “They are clever. The perfume masks the fact that the poison itself is odorless.”

“So Theodore spilled the poison on his own cloak, panicked, discarded it, and moved rooms under the excuse of illness,” Alaric concluded coldly. “A plausible story.”

He turned back to Pascale, a flash of approval in his crimson eyes. “Well done. Have Sus Griselda treat your hand. That is my order.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“But your task is not finished,” Alaric added before she could leave. “Starting tomorrow, you will become a shadow. Watch Theodore. But more importantly… watch him when he is with Rosieta.”

Sir Baldr turned, his white brows lifting. “You suspect Lady Rosieta as well, my lord? Is she not a victim?”

Alaric leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting toward the wooden ceiling. “Rosieta told me many things today. About Theodore’s cruelty, about their childhood. Her story was convincing… too convincing.”

“I need to know whether her tears are real, or merely another weapon from the South,” Alaric said firmly. “I must choose whom to trust in this nest of vipers.”

“I understand. It will be done, my lord.” Pascale bowed deeply, then vanished beyond the door like a ghost.

Sir Baldr looked at his master with pride mixed with concern. “You are playing with fire, my lord.”

“Better to play with fire than to freeze to death in ignorance, Baldr

Night grew deeper. Castle Vaelcryss lay silent, save for the howl of wind against the stone windows.

Alaric had just finished bathing. His wet black hair was combed back, revealing his sharp features. Dressed in a comfortable night tunic, he was about to lose himself in a military strategy book to escape the day’s turmoil.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Heavy knocks at his chamber door shattered his plans.

“My lord,” a guard’s voice called from outside. “Lord Isolde summons you to his chamber. Now.”

Alaric’s heart beat faster. A midnight summons from his father was rarely a good sign.

“I will come at once.”

He grabbed a thick fur cloak, draped it over his shoulders, and stepped into the hall. The corridor to Lord Vaelcryss’s chamber felt longer than usual.

When he arrived, the massive oak doors opened.

Lord Isolde’s chamber was far larger than Alaric’s. The walls were adorned with polar bear heads and legendary weapons from the Second Great War. At the center, a blazing fireplace radiated warmth, stark against the cold tension in the air.

Isolde Hildebrand sat in an armchair before the fire. Though one leg was gone and one eye hidden beneath a leather patch, his commanding aura could still make any man kneel. Beside him sat Ameera, their gentle mother, watching Alaric with a soft yet anxious smile.

“Sit, my son,” Ameera said, breaking the silence.

Alaric bowed respectfully to his father, then sat across from them. “You summoned me, Father?”

Isolde fixed his son with his sharp remaining eye. He despised small talk.

“I hear you spent the day with the eldest Caelthrone princess,” Isolde said, his voice heavy, like distant thunder.

“Yes, Father. I was only fulfilling my duty as host,” Alaric replied carefully.

Isolde exhaled slowly, then leaned back. He exchanged a glance with his wife before returning his gaze to Alaric.

“Good. Because we must discuss the future of this alliance,” Isolde said firmly. “We must speak of the details of that engagement, Alaric.”

Alaric fell silent. His hands tightened on the armrests. In his mind flashed the image of poisoned velvet and Eloise’s pale face. But before his father, he had to be an heir, not a detective.

“I am listening, Father,” Alaric said, bracing himself for a decree that might change the fate of the entire North.