I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 889: High Councilor Mel

Duke Asher’s coalition occupied the northern tier, right beside the chancel. Earl Mortaine sat with his silver-headed cane planted firmly between polished boots, his gaze sweeping the pews with indifference. Beside him, Earl Vex leaned in close to Viscount Horn, reviewing the sealed parchment of the emergency tribunal injunction.

“The royal observers are seated,” Vex murmured, pointing with his quill toward the velvet-draped royal box.

There, Aurelius sat beneath the golden eagle banner, his yellow hair gleaming beneath the chandeliers as he adjusted his gilded pauldrons.

He exuded an effortless, pompous superiority, nodding curtly to the passing lords. Duke Asher was banking on the young Chosen One’s presence.

The wider nobility knew little of the shadow Council pulling the strings of the Four Kingdoms, but Aurelius carried the direct ear of King Eric.

If the Church challenged Laurence Bale’s elevation, Aurelius was positioned to invoke royal authority and validate the intervention by referencing the historical Purge of Shadows.

The ancient campaign when rogue Soul Mages were eradicated to preserve the realm.

Sera leaned against an elven colonnade, twirling a polished throwing knife across her knuckles. Her crimson leather creaked with every restless shift.

“Look at this stiff room,” Sera muttered, catching the eye of a passing knight who promptly averted his gaze. “A bunch of roosters preening in their cages. I give it ten minutes before someone draws steel.”

Across the grand aisle, the southern pews held an entirely different gravity.

House Kaiser commanded the entire flank. Octavia sat upright, her white hair framing her porcelain features, magenta eyes cold and immovable as a frozen sea.

Beside her, Celeste leaned back against the dark oak pew, swirling a fresh glass of blood-wine, her lush lips curved in an amused, lazy smirk as she watched Asher’s lords sweat across the aisle.

Annabelle, delicate in her white and sky-blue silk, had already laid a parchment across her lap, her gold eyes studying the intricate elven masonry of the high apse.

“Look at the vaulted groin work,” Annabelle whispered, her fingers tracing the air. “The weight doesn’t rest on the outer buttresses at all. The foundation is drawing power downward.”

“It’s drawing power because it’s ancient and creepy, little sister,” Celeste teased, taking a lingering sip of wine. “Just like our darling Jack. Speaking of which, the brat is cutting it close.”

“He will arrive when he intends to,” Octavia said, her voice smooth and unyielding.

A sudden hush rippled through the southern nave, followed by the soft rustle of silk and a heavy, intoxicating scent of sunlit blossoms and crushed ocean pearls.

Gliding down the center aisle, completely indifferent to the gaping young lords, came Aurora Sunblade.

Another of the legendary Six Flowers of Elysium, Aurora was an overwhelming vision. Radiant blonde hair cascaded past her hips in shimmering waves, crowned by delicate feathered barrettes and porcelain hairpins.

Her hourglass figure was breathtakingly voluptuous, her thick, sculpted curves poured into an off-the-shoulder gown of midnight navy and deep cerulean silk accented with black velvet ribbons and crystallized blue floral brooches. The dark, fitted corset accentuated her generous bust and narrow waist, flowing into layered skirts that drifted like twilight water across the flagstones.

Her lavender-rose eyes, glowing with a soft, divine luminescence, locked onto the Kaiser pews. No longer constrained by the ancient curse that had silenced her voice, she parted her plush lips with an immediate, dazzling smile.

To the kingdom, she was the miraculously cured heiress of the Sunblade lineage, betrothed to the monstrous prodigy Jack Kaiser. To the heavens, she was a slumbering goddess of bliss.

“Sisters,” Aurora purred softly, gliding into the pew beside Annabelle. She smoothed her rich skirts and leaned in close with genuine affection. “The mountain road was dreadful, but I couldn’t bear the thought of missing Jack’s victory.”

Octavia’s cool expression softened a fraction, offering a rare, acknowledging nod. “Aurora. You traveled without your father’s vanguard?”

“They would only slow me down,” Aurora whispered, her cheeks flushing a delicate, enchanting pink as her hands drifted to her flat belly. Her eyes shone with an unhinged, earnest adoration. “Besides, I couldn’t stay in the capital another day. Every moment away from Jack feels like a wasted cycle. The curse is gone… I just want his babies so badly, Octavia. A little boy with his terrifying eyes and my hair. Can you imagine how magnificent he would be?”

Celeste nearly choked on her blood-wine, letting out a sharp, delighted wheeze into her crystal goblet. “By the gods, Aurora. You haven’t even had the wedding night, and you’re already ready?”

“I would bear him ten if he asked,” Aurora replied without a trace of shame, her voluptuous frame leaning eagerly toward them. “He is my master, my savior, and my heart. If Duke Asher’s mongrels so much as scuff his boots today, I will tear their souls out and offer them to the gods myself.”

Annabelle smiled softly, patting Aurora’s gloved hand. “He is nearby. I can feel him.”

While the pews whispered and alliances settled, a far darker exchange was taking place beneath the heavy arches of the western cloister.

Deep within the shadowed corridor behind the nave, secluded from the light of the chandeliers, High Inquisitor Mel stood waiting.

She was a severe, striking woman, clad in pristine white clerical vestments layered over gilded chain-mesh. Her golden hair was gathered in a strict, braided crown beneath her hood; her pale, hawkish face looked as serious as can be. Twin sanctified censers hung from her waist, and her hand rested on the pommel of her blessed estoc.

A quiet, uneven cadence echoed against the flagstones.

Tap…

Drag…

Tap…

Mel’s posture snapped straight, her breath hitching as a stooped figure emerged from the deep archway.

The man was ancient, his spine curved beneath the weight of years. He wore a plain traveling cloak of midnight silk that hung loosely over frail, brittle shoulders.

His face was a landscape of deep creases, hollow cheekbones, and pale age spots, while sparse gray hair clung to his temples.

He leaned heavily upon a long blackwood cane capped with a tarnished silver vulture skull, his crooked, skeletal fingers drumming against the polished wood.

And resting upon his withered forearm was an intricate band of permanent rime. Perched directly in his open palm was a tiny, translucent fairy.

The water spirit sat docile, completely subjugated beneath the suffocating spiritual threads binding it to the old man’s core.

Mel instantly dropped to one knee, her forehead nearly touching the cold granite. “Councilor Warren.”

Ren, maintaining the decrepit form, peered down through watery, milky gray eyes. He let out a dry, raspy wheeze, leaning forward onto the vulture cane.

“Stand, child,” Ren rasped, Warren’s thin, condescending cadence rolling from his lips like ancient papyrus. “The sanctuary has too many ears, and the wolves are watching the aisles.”

Mel rose swiftly, her eyes filled with profound reverence. To an Inquisitor of the Sun, the High Mage Council’s second seat was a living monolith of statecraft. Seeing the elemental fairy of legend resting in his palm erased any lingering doubt.

“The Duke’s retainers are positioned, Councilor,” Mel reported in a reverent whisper. “Laurence Bale will walk down the aisle within moments to claim the Earldom through marriage. We have the emergency writs. But Duke Asher feared the royal observers might hesitate.”

“Aurelius knows his place,” Ren lied smoothly, his spidery fingers curling tight around the silver vulture. “He understands the necessity of the Purge of Shadows. When the moment arrives, the Crown will not interfere with the Sun’s judgment.”

Mel’s eyes burned with holy fire. “And the Rite of Purity? Duke Asher wishes to invoke the Holy Pyre directly before the altar. If Starfell’s dark legacy taints Laurence Bale, the flames will consume him before the vows can be consecrated.”

“That is why I came personally,” Ren murmured, taking half a shuffling step forward. He lifted his free hand, letting the freezing mist of Glacius spill between them. “Listen closely, Mel. The Holy Pyre within St. Valeria’s apse is attuned to primal spiritual resonance. When the ritual ignites, watch the light.”

Mel leaned in, hanging on every raspy syllable.

“If Laurence Bale or those who defend him harbor corruption, a crimson light will burst through the flames, blinding the nave,” Ren instructed, his tone laden with false gravity. “It will signify the rot in their core, giving you absolute authority to execute them where they stand.”

“And if the light isn’t red?” Mel asked instinctively.

A faint, imperceptible twitch touched Ren’s withered lips.

“Golden light signifies absolute divine purity,” Ren whispered, raspy. “An incorruptible soul favored by the heavens. But rest assured, child… you will see only crimson.”

“Understood,” Mel breathed, bowing her head deeply. “The Sun shall cleanse the northern province this day.”

“Go,” Ren commanded softly, turning his stooped frame back toward the shadows. “Do not strike until the vows begin. Let Laurence reach the altar. Let Duke Asher speak. Let their trap be fully laid before you step into the light.”

“It shall be done, Councilor.” Mel turned with a sharp snap of her white vestments and strode swiftly toward the vestry to muster her arbiters.