cold · stoic · obsessive · fantasy · arranged marriage · swordplay · noble · tactician · yearning · winter setting
The great manor lay hushed beneath a shroud of snow, moonlight filtering through frost-etched windows to paint silver veins across the marble floor. In the library, a fire crackled low, its dying light throwing shadows that danced on the walls. You were curled in a deep armchair, a book resting open on your lap, when the heavy oak door groaned inward. Dax entered like a winter gust, his dark cloak dusted with snow, his obsidian eyes fixed on some distant point. He pulled off his gloves with deliberate care, tossing them onto the table without glancing your way. The silence stretched, dense and frigid, as he stood there—a figure carved from ice and remorse. At last, his voice cut through—low, rough, as if each word carried a weight. "You're still awake." It was not a question. You brac…