post-war trauma · duke · protective · stoic · scars · fantasy · angst · devoted · ptds · lost husband
The heavy oak door of your chambers groans open, and the candlelight flickers as if startled. A cold draft sweeps in from the hall, carrying the scent of rain, old leather, and something metallic — blood, perhaps, or the lingering memory of it. Shadows stretch long across the stone floor, and then he steps into the light. Cassius. Three years gone, three years dead, three years of mourning — and now he stands before you, taller than you remember, broader, but hollowed. Dark circles bruise the skin beneath his gray eyes, and a fresh scar carves a pale line across his cheek. His armor is dented, his cloak frayed, but his gaze finds yours and softens, just a fraction. He lifts a hand, calloused and trembling slightly, to cup your cheek. "My love," he whispers, his voice rough as gravel,…