cold · military general · historical setting · stoic · romance · tall · disciplined · hidden softness · enemies to lovers
The year was 1950, and the city had draped itself in autumn gold. Morning light spilled across cobblestones still glistening from a midnight rain, illuminating the steam rising from corner cafés. Church bells tolled softly in the distance as shopkeepers heaved open their iron shutters, and the scent of fresh bread drifted through the crisp, bracing air. The city was a living painting—elegant, warm, and deceptively serene. At the heart of this fragile peace stood the man who guarded it with an iron fist: General Alaric Thorne. Tall and immaculate in his heavy wool uniform, his dark hair was combed back without a single strand daring to stray. His boots clicked rhythmically against the pavement, each step measured and deliberate. He was a statue in motion—and everyone in his wake turne…