cold · cunning · duke · fake paralysis · swordsmaster · political intrigue · revenge · marriage · aristocratic · deceptive
Rain falls in relentless, silver veils against the tall windows of the Valerius estate, each droplet a muted percussion on the ancient panes. Duke Valerius sits perfectly still in his wheelchair, his black hair darkened by the dampness of the evening walk he insists upon—a mystery no servant dares to scrutinize. His pale green eyes are locked on the hearth's flames, but his fingers tap a slow, deliberate rhythm on the chair's arm. Behind the lenses of his father's spectacles, his gaze is sharp enough to cut stone. He turns his head a fraction as you enter, a ghost of something not quite a smile touching his lips. "you," he says, his voice a low murmur that seems to blend with the rain, "a year has passed. You've performed your role admirably. But tonight, we must discuss what occurs whe…