I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 888: Flowers Gathering

The limestone spires of the Cathedral of St. Valeria pierced the gray mountain mist, standing in regal defiance of the cold northern wind.

Carved centuries ago from abyssal granite and pale river stone, the colossal sanctum boasted arched buttresses that resembled folded dragon wings.

Today, the sanctuary’s quiet reverence was drowned beneath the rumble of carriages and the suffocating perfume of high aristocracy.

A minor baronial wedding was supposed to be a quiet regional affair. But King Eric Valdris’s royal decree had turned Laurence Bale’s elevation into an epicenter of kingdom-wide consequence, and the nobility had descended like hawks circling fresh prey.

To the western flank of the courtyard, Duke Asher’s faction had already staked out their ground. Earl Mortaine stood near the central fountain, his slate-gray eyes cool as he spoke in low tones with Earl Vex and Viscount Horn.

“We still have no word from Warren,” Viscount Horn muttered under his breath, his hand resting on his cavalry saber. “The Council’s second seat was supposed to confirm the emergency tribunal warrants before dawn.”

“Warren operates in the dark, Horn,” Mortaine replied smoothly, leaning on his silver-topped cane. “The Council does not broadcast its maneuvers with heralds. Our legal stranglehold on the Starfell line will stand, and the decree is already drafted. Patience.”

Nearby, Viscount Kale nervously adjusted the ermine trim of his mantle, checking over his shoulder as if expecting an executioner’s axe.

Vance stood apart from them, his fur-lined cloak pulled tight, his face pale. He held a silver goblet of mulled wine, fingers trembling against the rim.

“Calm yourself, Vance,” Mortaine murmured, not turning around. “You are a master of Phallanax Solutions standing in a church. If you continue sweating, the western lords will assume you have cholera.”

“You weren’t two feet from it, Mortaine,” Vance hissed. “That alpha beast shattered an iron breastplate with a casual backhand. If Laurence Bale had given the order, we would have been carrion.”

“And yet you are here,” Earl Vex interjected, eyes fixed on the entrance arches. “The beast remains chained to Starfell Manor. Within the hour, our arrangements will ensure Laurence Bale has no title left to claim.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered crowd.

Down the main avenue, preceded by sixteen outriders in emerald scale-mail, a crystalline carriage rolled smoothly into view. Etched into the doors in gold leaf was the blooming silver branch of Caerloria.

The carriage door opened, and Prince Rhys of Caerloria stepped down onto the flagstones.

He was tall, ethereal, and dressed in moonlight-silver and leaf-green velvet. Four towering elven royal guards flanked him, hands resting on slender sabers humming with wind mana.

Rhys glanced up at the spires with a faint smirk. “Fascinating. To think humans still keep St. Valeria’s stones standing. A pity they’ve turned a sanctuary of primal resonance into a mockery for our sun god.”

Before the whispers could settle, a contingent of royal cavalry trotted through the archway under the golden eagle crest. Riding at the head was Aurelius, the Chosen One. His yellow hair caught the sun like brass, meticulously styled over white armor inlaid with gold filigree. He sat with pompous, unyielding dignity, representing the Crown.

Beside him rode a woman who looked as though she had been dragged to the ceremony against her will.

Sera.

The second Chosen One was a breathtaking, savage spectacle. She wore crimson leather armor accentuating every curve, leaving her toned collarbones exposed to the chill. Twin jagged daggers rested against the small of her back, her crimson eyes scanning the crowd with the feral boredom of a wolf sizing up sheep.

“Look at them all,” Sera scoffed, swinging a leg over her saddle horn. “Scented like cheap whores and standing around like statues. Is there actually going to be blood at this farce, Aurelius, or did King Eric make me ride four days to watch two soft aristocrats exchange rings?”

“Control your tongue, Sera,” Aurelius said smoothly, dismounting with practiced decorum. “We are official observers for His Majesty. Show respect.”

“Respect my ass,” Sera sneered, sliding down. Her gaze drifted toward the northern road. “Besides, three merchant convoys carrying unrefined Moonwell salvage were hit by northern bandits two days ago. High-tier cores and serpent hides moving under unregistered seals. Kaiser supply lines. If little Jack Kaiser is moving goods through these woods, he’s here. And I intend to find out what that pretty boy is hiding.”

“Jack Kaiser is not an opponent for a public courtyard, Sera,” Aurelius warned.

Before Sera could retort, the chatter in the plaza died completely.

A profound silence swept over the four hundred assembled nobles. Men stopped mid-sentence, crystal goblets frozen in hand. Approaching the grand steps was a single obsidian-black carriage bearing the fangs of House Kaiser.

Neither Duke Alaric nor Lady Genevieve emerged. But what stepped down stole the breath from every living soul in the courtyard.

Three women. Three of the legendary Six Flowers of Elysium.

Celeste Kaiser stepped out first, her waist-length, glowing golden-blonde hair catching the sunlight. She wore an emerald-and-gold gown with a plunging neckline that put her breathtaking bust on full display, accented by dark lace. She carried a crystal goblet of spiced blood-wine, golden eyes glazed with an amused, half-drunken warmth. She had consumed enough spirits to fell three trolls, yet the terrifying Kaiser constitution kept her perfectly upright.

Behind her came Octavia Kaiser, the golden child. Her white hair fell in a chic bob, framing a face of porcelain perfection. Her glowing violet-magenta eyes were sharp as glass. She wore an exquisite, corseted royal purple gown adorned with dark thorned lace that cupped her chest with regal elegance. She walked with the lethal authority of a sovereign general, her mana making nearby nobles step back instinctively.

Finally, Annabelle Kaiser stepped onto the stones. Her crystal white hair cascaded past her waist, framed by twin floral hairpins. She wore an off-the-shoulder gown of white and pale sky-blue silk, its corset cinched with a delicate velvet bow. Her gold eyes looked around with gentle artistic curiosity, though the spiritual mana humming at her wrists reminded all of her bloodline.

“By the gods,” Viscount Kale whispered, voice cracking. “All three of them…”

“Shut up, Kale,” Mortaine hissed. “The Duke sent the flowers. This is a show of force.”

Seeing the sisters arrive, their western allies moved forward to greet them as equals.

Earl Dustpire, a broad-shouldered man with iron-gray hair and an imposing military bearing, led the way. Beside him walked Earl Mistfang, carrying the heavy grace of a veteran commander.

She was older, possessing an undeniably thick, voluptuous frame poured into dark leather-paneled velvet that drew wandering glances from the younger nobility.

Gliding with them was Earl Veyra, turning heads with every step, another of the Six Flowers of Elysium, radiant and effortless in a backless gown of midnight sapphire.

“Lady Octavia,” Dustpire murmured, offering a respectful nod. “A pleasure to see House Kaiser gracing the northern cold.”

“Save the pleasantries, Dustpire,” Octavia said, her voice melodic and cold as winter frost. “Where is my brother?”

“Lord Kaiser has not arrived through the gates, my Lady,” Dustpire replied with a dry chuckle. “Though expecting that boy to take the front road is a fool’s errand.”

“He’s here,” Celeste interrupted, sipping her wine with a lush smile. She glanced toward the rooflines of the elven towers. “The brat wouldn’t miss a chance to cause a disaster on consecrated ground. I can smell his dreadful little shadows from here.”

“I hope he brought my sketchbook,” Annabelle whispered softly. “The morning light against these arches is magnificent. It would be a shame if Duke Asher’s dogs ruin the masonry before Jack can see it.”

Earl Veyra let out a musical laugh. “If your brother has half the temper Duke Alaric carries, little Annabelle, Asher’s dogs won’t just ruin the masonry. They’ll be buried under it.”

“Let them fools dare,” Mistfang said, her husky voice carrying effortless confidence as her hand rested on her pommel. “We have heavy carriages in the square and seasoned outriders holding the perimeter. If Asher’s lackeys think they can turn this into an ambush, western steel cuts just as deep in the north.”

Across the courtyard, Vance felt cold sweat trace his neck. Four of the Six Flowers of Elysium stood together, surrounded by the heaviest war-earls of the west. Asher’s faction, the royal observers, the Caerlorian prince, and the most dangerous women in the kingdom were assembled under one gray sky.

Suddenly, a hollow toll resonated from the bell tower.

CLANG.

The heavy bronze doors slowly parted, revealing the candle-lit expanse of the nave within. The nobility began to file inside, their hushed whispers echoing off ancient elven pillars. Yet as Octavia stepped past the threshold, her magenta eyes lingered on the surrounding mist.

The court was gathered, the doors were open, and somewhere in the shadows above, the heir of House Kaiser was already watching.

“Master, everything is ready for your entrance.” A soldier said, bowing his head.

A creepy smile could be seen in the clouds above the cathedral as he prepared for the step.