The Swordswoman’s Revenge Story after Rebirth

Chapter 323: Farewell

Isolde quickly expressed her gratitude. Sadic looked at her warmly and said, “No need to be so formal. When my wedding comes, I’ll be using her too, so I figured I might as well arrange it now.”

Esme chuckled. “Sadie, your time is coming soon.”

“A young lady speaking of her own marriage without the slightest bit of shyness,” Aveline teased with a smile.

“What’s there to be shy about? It’s a joyous occasion.” Sallic stepped closer, studying Isolde carefully. “Your skin is so smooth—applying makeup later will be a breeze.”

The makeup artist approached to greet Isolde. She appeared to be in her early thirties, with flawless skin, a neatly coiled bun, and a bright red outfit that exuded festivity.

“I appreciate your help,” Isolde said with a respectful bow.

The woman smiled. “You’re so down-to-earth.”

The preparations began—makeup, the elaborate wedding attire, the intricate hairstyle. The phoenix crown was set aside for now, to be placed on her head only after the formal ceremonies. The entire process took over an hour.

Outside, the sound of firecrackers echoed. The auspicious hour had arrived—it was time to pay respects to the ancestors.

Ryker entered and quietly reported to Esme, “Everything at the ancestral hall is set. We’re just waiting for Lady Isolde to arrive.”

Esme nodded. “Alright, let’s get moving. Has the snow stopped?”

Ryker exhaled, his breath misting in the cold air. “No, it’s coming down even harder. The ground is covered, so everyone will need to tread carefully—it’s slippery.”

“Understood.”

Ryker turned to leave but then hesitated. Lowering his voice, he added, “Just now, someone from the old madam’s quarters came by. They said Lady Isolde should go there first to pay her respects.”

“Of course, she must greet Natasha. But first, the ancestral hall. There’s no rush,” Esme replied.

Ryker shook his head. “No, it’s not Natasha. It’s Prudence.”

Esme froze for a moment—she had almost forgotten that woman still existed.

Her lips curled into a cold smile. “Why? Is she expecting Lady Isolde to bow and thank her for not killing her? If it weren’t for Lady Isolde’s sheer luck, she would have died when she was pushed off that cliff outside the city.”

Ryker exhaled sharply. “That’s exactly it. But the servants say Prudence somehow got hold of a dagger. She swore that if Lady Isolde doesn’t come to kneel before her, she’ll curse her—swear that she’ll take her own life and leave behind bad luck for the wedding.”

She turned to Ryker. “You handle Lady Isolde’s ceremony. I’ll deal with Prudence myself.”

“Understood.”

Esme strode out with purpose. She knew Prudence had reached the point of desperation—so bitter that she had abandoned even her own grandson.

But did Prudence really think she could get away with this today?

Esme pushed open the door to find only an old servant inside, her face full of unease. When she saw Esme, she immediately lowered her head. “Esme, the dagger was originally placed on the cabinet—it was just for peeling fruit. I don’t know how Prudence managed to get out of bed and take it.”

Esme glanced at the cabinet. It was low, easy to reach. But Prudence could barely walk—if she had gone to such lengths to seize the blade herself, she was truly determined to make trouble.

Esme waved the servant away. “Leave us.”

She walked up to the bed.

Prudence lay there, gripping the dagger so tightly that her knuckles were white. She pressed the cold steel against her own throat, her eyes burning with hatred.

“She must bow to me.” Her voice was hoarse, laced with venom.

Esme chuckled. “Don’t worry. Lady Isolde will come. She’s just paying her respects to the ancestors first. Or do you really think she should kneel before you before honoring them? You wouldn’t dare take precedence over the ancestors, would you?”

Without waiting for a response, Esme turned and flung the doors and windows wide open.

A gust of icy wind swept through the room, instantly stealing its warmth.

Then she walked back to the bed, grabbed the blankets, and yanked them onto the floor.

“Prudence’s bedding is filthy. Why hasn’t it been changed?” she asked mockingly.

Prudence shivered violently as the cold hit her. “You can torment me all you want. But even if I die today, I won’t let her have a good life.”

“What a ridiculous thing to say on such a joyous day. Besides, with Sadie here, you won’t be dying anytime soon.” Esme’s tone was light, but her eyes were cold.

“You—” Prudence trembled harder as another wave of icy air swept through the room. Her body convulsed with shivers.

Esme ignored her. “This room is a mess. The servants clearly aren’t looking after you properly. Since I have some time before Lady Isolde arrives, I might as well clean up for you.”

She rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

Sweeping, wiping down furniture, folding clothes, scrubbing the dust away. The movement kept her warm, but the same could not be said for Prudence.

Prudence was freezing. Her body curled in on itself, and she sneezed violently, over and over.

Her fingers, still clutching the dagger, were growing stiff.

Esme watched with faint amusement. What a stubborn old woman. Even on her deathbed, she clings to her hatred.

By the time Esme finished, sweat dampened her brow, but Prudence had passed out from the cold. Her face had turned a ghastly shade of purple, but even in unconsciousness, her fingers still clung to the dagger.

Her breathing was shallow. She won’t last much longer, Esme thought.

Reaching out, she plucked the dagger from Prudence’s grip, then gently covered her with the discarded blankets. She looked down at the frail, shivering woman, shaking her head.

This is the worst kind of punishment—wanting to fight but having no strength left.

With that, she left quietly.

Back at the ancestral hall, Isolde was finishing her first round of bows. She would soon pay her respects to both Prudence and Geoffrey.

She stepped outside to perform the farewell ceremony—twice. The first was a private moment, bowing in gratitude for her parents’ love and care. The second, a public farewell before all the gathered relatives and friends.

The first ceremony was supposed to take place in Geoffrey’s chambers, but because Natasha was in the Pearl Tower, he had moved there instead.

When he saw Natasha, guilt flickered across his face.

But Natasha, ever composed, merely asked, “Are you feeling better?”

Geoffrey quickly nodded. “Much better. Thank you for your concern.”

Two grand chairs had been placed at the entrance of the Pearl Tower. Tradition dictated that Isolde first bow to her father. Natasha, as a member of her maternal family, technically should not have been present. Even if she was, she should have waited until after the father’s ceremony.

But Geoffrey had deliberately placed Natasha in the seat of honor beside him.

His gaze fell on the memorial tablet placed between the two chairs—the name of his late wife, Prunella, engraved upon it.

“Prunella,” he murmured softly. “Our daughter is getting married.”

His voice was steady, but there was a depth of emotion behind those simple words that no one else could understand.

He lifted the memorial tablet in his arms and took his seat on the right, facing Isolde.

A ceremonial mat was placed on the floor.

The wedding officiant announced, “The daughter bows in gratitude for her parents’ love and care. Begin.”

Her forehead touched the ground—once, twice, three times. She rose, knelt again. Another three bows. And again, one last time.

Geoffrey held the memorial tablet tightly. His expression was gentle, but his eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

“You should be here,” he whispered, his fingers tracing the carved words My Beloved Wife.