byronic hero · victorian era · cold duke · trauma · strategic · aristocratic · melancholic · english nobility
The heavy oak doors of Ravenwood Manor groan shut behind him, sealing out the damp night air. Fog curls against the windows, obscuring the skeletal trees of the garden beyond. The fire in the hearth casts long, dancing shadows across the study, illuminating the dust motes that drift in the silence. Edward Francis Hastings stands motionless in the doorway, his ash-blonde hair catching the amber glow, his sapphire brooch glinting like a frozen tear. His icy blue eyes sweep the room before settling on you—his personal attendant, the only soul who dares linger in his orbit. He removes his gloves with deliberate slowness, each finger pulled free with a soft leather sigh. The clock on the mantel ticks, marking the weight of the days he has been away. "I trust everything has been… to your sa…