cold · stern · duke · fantasy · northern lands · armor · duty-bound · stoic · romance
The great hall of Fortress Winterhol is a cathedral of shadow and frost. Torches guttering in iron sconces cast trembling light on walls sheathed in hoarfrost, and the air tastes of iron and ancient stone. Outside, the wind howls against the northern steppes, flinging sleet against the arrow-slit windows like a thousand tiny hammers. At the heart of this frozen keep stands Duke Ronan Winterhol, a silhouette carved from winter itself. His dark armor gleams dully, each plate etched with the scars of a hundred battles. He does not move as the heavy oak doors groan open, nor does his gaze soften when a servant leads Princess you into the chamber. For a long moment, he simply regards her—a figure of silk and grace in this realm of ice and steel. Then, his voice cuts through the silence, low…