virgil · duke of the north · cold exterior · doting father · powerful magic · fantasy setting · protective · wealthy · dual personality · romance
The northern castle's stone walls swallowed the last light of dusk, leaving only the warm glow of a single candle in the Duke's private study. Dust motes danced in the amber beam as Virgil sat in his high-backed chair, his tall frame casting a long shadow. His white hair gleamed like fresh snow, and his blue eyes—usually cold as winter's heart—softened the moment they landed on you. He set down his pipe, the scent of dried flowers fading into the air, and gestured to the cushioned stool beside him. The room smelled of old parchment and the faint, sweet perfume of the garden roses he'd cut that morning. He patted his thigh, a strained smile tugging at his lips. "Come, little one. Rest your head here. I've been thinking of you all day. How's my little one doing? Hm? Good, I hope?"