I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 890: Jack, Since When?!

The great pipes of the cathedral organ shuddered to life, their low bass rolling through the foundation like subterranean thunder.

Fragrant incense billowed from high gilded censers, drifting in lazy clouds toward the ribbed vaults and mingling with the crisp autumn wasaft that slipped beneawiththe arches.

Four hundred nobles fell into an uneasy hush, their heads turning toward the central aisle as the solemn rhythm of the wedding march began to resonate against the ancient elven stone.

Preceded by four heralds bearing the silver-and-black banner onorthwesterne, the bridal procession stepped onto the aisle.

Laurence Bale walked with unyielding confidence.

Dressed in the formal mantle of an ascending provincial peer. Carcoal velvet trimmed in midnight fur, clasped at the throat with an obsidian brooch carved in the likeness of a roaring lion.

His jaw remained set, his dark eyes fixed entirely on the raised marble altar ahead. There was no hesitation in his stride, none of the nervous stammer Duke Asher’s faction had long associated with the rural baron.

He moved with the heavy, grounded posture of a man who had stared down horrors and refused to yield an inch of ground.

Beside him walked Victoria Starfell.

The heiress of House Starfell was a vision of severe, aristocratic elegance. Blonde hair was woven into an intricate high crown pinned by polished silver spikes, framing a pale, striking face marked by high cheekbones and sharp, amethyst eyes.

Her grand wedding gown of layered white samite and silver lace embroidery across the tailored bodice, the long train cascading over the flagstones like a frozen river.

She held Laurence’s arm with a firm, deliberate grip. To the wider court, this union had begun as an aggressive, humiliating takeover.

A minor north western baron seizing an impoverished northern house whose patriarch had run their treasury into ruin.

But in recent months, Victoria had watched Duke Asher’s predatory debt covenants burned to ash. She had seen Starfell Manor purged of ducal spies and reinforced with raw, terrifying authority.

What had started as a bitter political sacrifice had transformed into an iron strategic partnership. She was not walking toward an execution; she was walking beside a partner to reclaim her family’s sovereign birthright.

As they passed the southern pews, Celeste leaned forward, swirling her crystal goblet of spiced blood-wine with a lazy, predatory grin. “Look at him,” she whispered under her breath, golden eyes gleaming. “He cleans up well. If the boy survives the afternoon, I might have to buy him a proper flagon of western reserve.”

“He won’t need your whiskey, Celeste,” Octavia murmured, her cold magenta eyes fixed across the aisle. “He needs to keep his neck straight. Asher’s dogs are already twitching in their boots.”

Beside Annabelle, Aurora Sunblade leaned forward, her plush lips curving into a soft, breathy smile as she smoothed the rich silk of her gown. “He holds himself with dignity,” Aurora whispered, her lavender-rose eyes carrying that dreamy, unhinged devotion. “Though of course, he lacks Jack’s divine presence. When Jack stands before an altar with me, the heavens themselves will tremble.”

“One wedding at a time, Aurora,” Celeste chuckled into her cup.

Across the nave, Vance gripped his cane with white knuckles, his teeth grinding together so hard his jaw ached. Beside him, Earl Mortaine leaned down toward Viscount Horn.

“Now?” Horn muttered, his hand resting on the pommel of his heavy cavalry saber.

“Wait until they reach the second step,” Mortaine replied, his voice thin, clinical, and devoid of warmth. “The insult carries far more legal weight when struck directly against the holy cloth. Let the priest commit to the words.”

Laurence and Victoria ascended the marble tiers, coming to a halt before the elevated chancel. Standing above them in golden sunburst robes was the High Priest of the northern dioceses, holding a jewel-encrusted tome of ecclesiastical law, flanked by two acolytes holding smoldering censers.

“Children of the realm,” the High Priest boomed across the cavernous nave, his voice amplified by the natural elven acoustics of the stone arches. “We gather beneath the sacred vault of St. Valeria to bind House Bale and House Starfell in divine covenant. By royal succession and ancient blood, this union shall elevate the Baron to the sovereign seat of…”

“Halt.”

The single word cut through the incense like a cleaver.

A collective gasp rippled through the pews. Nobles stiffened, silk rustling and scabbards shifting as the fragile peace shattered.

Duke Asher stepped directly into the center aisle.

The master of the southern faction was a towering figure with broad shoulders and cold, steel-blue eyes beneath graying temples. Draped in crimson velvet lined with pristine white ermine, the oppressive weight of his ancestral authority made the surrounding air feel instantly suffocating.

Behind him, Earl Vex and Earl Mortaine stepped forward in practiced lockstep.

“Your Grace?” The High Priest froze, his hands trembling slightly over the sacred scripture. “This is a sanctified rite of the Sun. No man, regardless of noble peerage, may disrupt the altar without…”

“The altar is being mocked, High Priest,” Duke Asher declared, his voice rolling through the nave with practiced thunder. “The Church of the Sun stands on truth, legitimacy, and kingdom law. Yet you stand ready to place the coronet of an Earl onto the head of an insolvent fraud.”

Laurence didn’t flinch. He slowly turned atop the dais, his hand lightly steadying Victoria’s fingers. “Duke Asher. If you wished to offer your congratulations, custom dictates you wait until the banquet.”

Mortaine silenced the scattered chuckles among the western lords with a single, sweeping glare.

“This is no jest, Baron Bale,” Earl Vex shouted, stepping out as he unrolled a heavy, wax-sealed parchment. “By order of the High Noble Tribunal and the Ministry of Commerce, the Starfell succession is contested! House Starfell remains burdened by ninety thousand marks in defaulted credit to Phallanax Solutions and the Northern Consortium!”

Vex held the document high, letting the royal and ministerial seals catch the chandelier light.

“A title cannot be elevated while its core assets are under formal legal lien,” Vex proclaimed, his sharp voice carrying to every corner of the nave. “Furthermore, the collateral provided by House Bale has been flagged by the Crown’s auditors as illicit contraband. Until the Tribunal audits the accounts, Laurence Bale is legally insolvent. He has no right to claim the Earldom, and this wedding violates the Crown’s trade charters!”

In the royal box, Aurelius leaned against the velvet railing, his yellow hair catching the chandeliers as he spoke with pompous, unyielding authority.

“The Crown notes the legal challenge,” Aurelius announced smoothly, nodding down toward Duke Asher. “His Majesty King Eric Valdris values order and transparency in noble succession. If the financial foundation of the Starfell line is fraudulent, the royal observers must demand the consecration be suspended immediately.”

Viscount Kale visibly exhaled in relief, while Vance finally let color return to his face. The trap was springing cleanly: royal backing, commercial injunctions, and the Church aligning to crush Laurence before the vows could be sealed.

Duke Asher raised a gloved hand.

At the signal, twenty-four armed retainers in crimson-and-silver cloaks detached from the back pillars. Their iron greaves clattered against the stone in terrifying lockstep as they fanned out across the central aisle, drawing polished poleaxes to seal Laurence atop the dais.

“Step down, Laurence,” Asher commanded, his steel eyes cold with finality. “Yield the Starfell seal to the Tribunal. Surrender your retainers for formal inspection. Step down quietly, and you will face an audit, not the scaffold.”

Victoria took a sharp, furious breath, her amethyst eyes flashing. “Asher, you lying dog…”

“Peace, my Lady,” Laurence whispered softly. He didn’t draw steel. He simply glanced past the wall of retainers, past the pompous gaze of Aurelius, and looked di,rectly toward the grand entrance at the rear of the cathedral. “You address matters of legal statutes, Duke Asher, including obligations, formal mandates, and sovereign authority. But you seem to have forgotten one simple truth.”

Duke Asher’s jaw tightened. “And what truth is that, boy?”

“You aren’t the biggest authority in this room.”

Before Asher could retort, the massive bronze doors of St. Valeria shuddered.

A concussive spiritual implosion blasted through the air like lightning.

BOOM!!!! 💥 💥 💥

Both twenty-foot bronze doors were hurled wide, slamming back against the stone walls with a deafening crash that shook dust from the high ceiling. A howling, freezing gale swept through the nave, extinguishing three dozen candles along the colonnades and sending plumes of myrrh whipping across the pews.

The temperature in the cathedral plummeted instantly. Nobles gasped, clutching their furs as their breath blossomed into thick plumes of frost.

The retainers in the aisle spun around in confusion, poleaxes trembling in their iron gauntlets as the freezing draft bit through their armor.

Through the mist spilling past the threshold, a single figure strode into the nave.

He wore a tailored coat of midnight-blue velvet and silver embroidery that fell in sharp lines over broad shoulders. A high collar framed his pale jawline, and his dark hair was swept back from a face of unearthly, lethal poise.

The silence that fell over the four hundred nobles was suffocating. Up in the gallery, even the elven guards flanking Prince Rhys leaned forward, fingers tightening instinctively on their sabers. Sera’s grin broadened into a feral sneer, her fingers twitching near her daggers.

Under his left arm, tucked casually like a clerk carrying a mundane ledger, was a polished le,ather-bound sketchbook with twin silver floral clasps.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The retainers blocking the path parted like water before the prow of a warship. Not a single soldier dared raise a poleaxe; the sheer presence radiating off the young heir forced them back against the pews, their eyes wide with panic.

Jack walked right past them, completely ignoring Duke Asher, ignoring Earl Mortaine, and ignoring the pompous stare of Aurelius in the royal box.

He stopped directly beside the southern pews.

Celeste took a slow sip of blood-wine, lips parting in a wicked smirk. Octavia offered a single, approving nod, magenta eyes burning with cold triumph. Aurora looked up at him with unmasked hunger, her fingers tightening into the velvet of her skirts as if ready to throw herself into his arms right then and there.

Jack turned, reaching down to place the leather-bound book gently onto Annabelle’s lap.

“You forgot your sketchbook, Annie,” Jack said, his voice smooth, casual, and utterly indifferent to the armed confrontation around him. “The lighting against the apse really is quite decent. You should start with the stained glass.”

Jack’s eyes flashed purple as he stared at Octavia.

“JACK!!! Since when?!” Octavia screamed breaking the heavy silence in the room.