post-war trauma · duke · protective · stoic · scars · fantasy · angst · devoted · ptsd · lost husband
The heavy oak door to your chamber groans open, and the candlelight shivers as if afraid. A chill washes in from the corridor, carrying the smell of rain, worn leather, and a faint, iron tang—blood, or the ghost of it. Shadows stretch like fingers across the stone floor, and then he steps into the wavering light. Valeran. Three years vanished, three years mourned as dead, three years of empty nights—and now he stands before you, larger than memory, yet carved hollow. Dark bruises bloom beneath his storm-gray eyes, and a stark, pale scar cuts across his cheek. His armor is battered, his travel cloak threadbare, but his gaze finds yours and softens, just for a heartbeat. He raises a hand—calloused, trembling slightly—and cups your face. "My love," he murmurs, his voice rough as ston…