TSFA l Part 2 CH 67

Part 2 Chapter 67

The Groom Had Changed!

Nike was so dumbfounded his mouth just flapped open as he tried to retrace where exactly the miscommunication had happened.

No—wait.

There hadn’t been any communication to begin with!

And yet… could the custodians of the royal tombs—who did nothing else their entire lives but this—really make such a clueless mistake?

These were state-funded officials, weren’t they? Did they think it was fine to just bungle their work like this?

…but to be fair!

‘Should I… have changed clothes first?’

Nike had rushed in late, still in his knight’s armor, same as Liner. Of course the custodians assumed the two armored men were just attendants.

After all, who would imagine a royal prince turning up straight from the battlefield to a sacred marriage rite without even changing?

‘Still, even so… shouldn’t they know by my face?’

Surely his resemblance to his brother—who had also once stood here for the same rite—should have given it away?

When Nike glanced back, Liner was already suppressing laughter, his cheeks twitching.

With his lips, he mouthed: “Guess His Excellency got outshone in the noble aura department.”

…Unbelievable.

But he couldn’t even deny it.

Because the mistake was, frankly, understandable. Märchen really did radiate nobility.

A born prince, after all—his bearing, gestures, the effortless dignity ingrained into him—all screamed “royal.”

And the custodians, bound by silence, wouldn’t have dared question it.

The noble aura pouring off his face. The stately grace in his every move.

To them, there was no doubt: the groom was Märchen.

Fine. He’d admit it. People make mistakes.

But letting his bride get stolen right in front of his eyes? That, Nike could never allow.

He opened his mouth.

“Hey—”

Smack!

A custodian, startled, slapped his arm with a paper fan.

“Kkhh!”

Liner couldn’t hold back his laughter anymore—pfft!

Smack!

He got whacked too.

Nike clenched his teeth, rubbing his stinging arm, glaring at the custodian.

You botch the job and then have the nerve to scold me?

But in the tombs, silence was law. The custodians had the right to “communicate” with fans, and nothing else.

He remembered the first shrine, when Bania had slipped up three times and been swatted each time. Nike had glared in anger on her behalf—only to get whacked himself.

So now, he tried body language.

He pointed at Märchen.

[That outfit.]

Then jabbed a thumb at his own chest.

[Belongs on me.]

Twisting both hands together, he mimed.

[The groom is wrong.]

The custodians squinted, exchanged glances, and tilted their heads in puzzlement.

So dense! If they wouldn’t let people talk, couldn’t they at least learn to read the room?

“Pfft—!”

From beside him came Liner’s muffled laugh.

Smack!

Another swat for him.

Nike followed his gaze—up ahead at the altar.

There stood the “groom” and the veiled bride, already facing each other.

No. Absolutely not.

He couldn’t stand it anymore!

Nike stormed toward them, striding like an enraged rhinoceros.

***

The ritual began when the bride and groom unveiled, bowing to each other before the custodians and attendants.

Afterward, they would share three cups of prayer wine—for the Empire’s prosperity, for eternal love, and for household blessings—before bowing in silence before the portraits of their ancestors.

I knew the steps well by now.

Veiled, I was led to the altar.

At the signal, the custodians lifted our veils—mine and the groom’s opposite me.

“…Eh?”

Smack!

I’d managed not to slip up even once—until now.

My gasp earned me a swat on the shoulder.

But seriously—what was this?

Before me stood… a prince.

A devastatingly handsome man who looked nothing like my husband, aside from the shared good looks.

Märchen blinked blankly back at me.

And then—

Smack! Smack! Smack!

A string of sharp slaps echoed closer.

I turned—and there came Nike, stomping furiously down the aisle like a charging bull.

Rule number one: Never walk quickly inside the shrine.

Second only to silence, it was the strictest taboo.

But Nike was blatantly ignoring it, while the custodians whacked him furiously with their fans.

The ones near us raised their fans too, ready to strike him as soon as he arrived.

But when Nike jabbed a finger at Märchen’s face, his own blazing red, even the custodians froze in intimidation.

Nike mouthed:

[The groom!]

Pointing at his chin.

[Is me!]

Märchen nodded vigorously.

[Yes, yes, he’s right!]

Gesturing at his own face, then crossing his arms in an X.

[Not me! I’m not the groom!]

…Wow.

What was this—a mime show put on by idiots?

***

Forty minutes later.

Nike and I were in the underground chamber of the Valencie shrine, before the portraits and spirit tablets of the royal ancestors.

The final part of the rite: just the two of us, no custodians, no attendants.

A silent bow before the sleeping forebears.

“Kkhh!”

I couldn’t help it. A laugh burst out.

I covered my mouth, sneaking a glance at Nike.

Having finally reclaimed his groom’s robes after the fiasco, he raised an eyebrow at me.

“Funny?”

“…Mm-hm.”

How could it not be? It was the kind of memory I’d chuckle over for years.

Nike, still sulking over being “outshone in noble aura,” sighed again and again.

I threw my arms around his waist.

He looked down, sullen—but finally cracked a smile and hugged me back.

“Let’s pray.”

“Yeah.”

Before our ancestors, we clung together like cockroaches.

“Are you praying for the same thing as last time?”

“Mm-hm.”

On the eve of our great rebellion, Nike had prayed for forgiveness—for betraying his country for a woman. For his forebears to calm their anger, and lend him strength to succeed.

“Ancestors, please forgive us just this once.”

I whispered aloud, because I wasn’t of their blood. Silent prayers might not reach them.

“Isn’t it love, after all, that makes us do uncharacteristic, foolish things?”

Nike, and me too.

Without love, he never would have betrayed his empire. And perhaps I…

I might never have abandoned my father, my brothers, my family.

I thought about myself.

Would I, without any such trigger, have been capable of giving up wealth, power, and kin for righteousness alone?

I would never know. Because I had already been changed by love, reshaped beyond return.

“After you learned I’d turned back time… did you ever regret it?”

“No.”

His answer was immediate. It made me smile.

“By the time I knew, you’d already left your family behind. I already knew you were capable of that choice. So no… I didn’t regret it.”

“….”

“It only made me realize—that’s why I love you.”

“…Mm.”

I tilted my head up from his chest to meet his eyes.

“But I don’t think I could have made my choice either… if it weren’t for loving you.”

His lips curved faintly. Then he pressed a brief kiss to my forehead.

Love.

That maddening feeling that sometimes drove people to madness.

It had led us both down paths no one else would ever understand.

But in the end, I believed, it would also guide us perfectly to where we belonged.

Were our choices foolish—or wise?

The proof lay just ahead.

“This autumn… let’s go to the hill where the marigolds bloom.”

The happiness we had once only prayed for in our past lives.

The happiness we would seize, this autumn.

***

A midsummer’s day.

The Imperial Capital, at the Royal Tribunal.

Today was the first hearing of the retrial, for the Conrad Massacre of sixteen years ago.

Law was merciless: even if the true culprits lost their heads, Ryan Bassenberg’s false charges would not automatically vanish.

His innocence still needed to be proven.

“Mmm-hmm~”

The fifteen-year-old prodigy lawyer hummed as he strolled lightly out of the court after his first argument.

Tall now, in a crisp shirt and suit, he cut quite the figure.

His two guards, Zeff and Rocky, hurried to his side.

“Well done, young master!”

“How did it go?”

Rocky asked, and Alexander shrugged.

“Not bad. It’s a pity I couldn’t yet present one decisive piece of evidence.”

“You’ll get it next time.”

“Exactly.”

Alexander strode off with his long, confident steps.

To his next appointment—

A meeting with his beloved half-sister, Krista.

Though of course, she wouldn’t show up.

“Ugh, but this heat! Our handsome young master’s skin will burn.”

“Please endure it a little longer, sir!”

Whoosh—!

Zeff draped his black suit jacket over Alexander’s shoulders.

Shielded by his men, Alexander tilted his face up to the blazing sky.

“Well, what’s it matter?”

And with a wide grin, under the fierce summer sun, he said:

“Perfect weather for dying.”