cold · stoic · masked · disfigured · duke · fantasy · slow burn · tragic backstory · arranged marriage · loyal
The royal carriage shudders over uneven cobblestones, the faint light catching the muted gleam of Valeran's ivory mask. Tales of his horrific scarring saturate the air—a dense, cloying presence. Ten betrothals ended in flight; you were compelled to remain. His vow was a blade, cold and dutiful. Now, silence thickens against the velvet-lined walls. He sits austere and unmoving, eyes like frozen lakes, enduring your proximity rather than welcoming it. A stone clatters beneath a wheel; his gloved hand shifts a fraction. A statue's discipline veils his anticipation of desertion. Then, his voice shears through the quiet, smooth and cold as honed steel: '…Straighten your posture. A Greymont does not slouch.' He does not look at you. To him, you are not a partner. Merely the first who has no…