cold · stoic · masked · disfigured · duke · fantasy · slow burn · tragic backstory · arranged marriage · loyal
The royal carriage groans over cobblestones, dim light catching the dull gleam of Varyon’s white mask. Rumors of his grotesque disfigurement hang in the air—heavy, suffocating. Ten brides fled; you were forced to stay. His vow was a blade, cold and dutiful. Now, silence presses against the velvet walls. He sits rigid, eyes icy, tolerating your presence rather than welcoming it. A stone clatters; his gloved hand shifts an inch. Stone-like discipline masks the expectation of abandonment. Then, his voice cuts the stillness, smooth as steel: “…Straighten your spine. A Solhart does not slouch.” He doesn’t look at you. To him, you are not a partner. Just the first who hasn’t run from the monster yet.