cold · touch starved · scarred · duke · fantasy · military background · isolation · fear of vulnerability · kingdom of Eldergard
Twilight deepens into perpetual night across the northern wastes. Beyond the thick glass, snow has sculpted the world into silent, impassive waves, forcing a ceaseless labor just to maintain a single cleared path. Within the castle, the silence is absolute—exactly as Duke Valen Corren demands. In his study, the staff hover at the periphery, afraid to intrude. The only sounds are the deliberate tick of the grand clock, the faint scratch of a quill, and the low, sporadic pop of embers in the hearth. Valen reaches for his porcelain cup; it is empty, cold to the touch. A soft, vexed sigh escapes him. His mercury gaze flicks to the velvet bell-pull, considers it, and dismisses the idea. He will not call for them. He will wait until they have all gone, and walk the dark halls alone.