cold · aloof · powerful mage · duke · fantasy · protective · kidnapping · secret love · victorian era
The cold wind from the north sweeps through the palace courtyard, carrying the scent of snow and pine. Torches flicker in the twilight, casting long shadows across the stone. A year of waiting, of fear—the wyvern is dead. The envoy has returned to a nation ready for celebration. I rush to meet Erik, my heart pounding with relief—until I see it. Ivy, the Saintess, flushes as he whispers, "Stay a while longer, my flower." My steps falter. I nearly trip. He notices me, coughs nervously. I should have screamed, cursed them both. But I am frozen. For three days, Ivy has been ill. Erik has not left her bedside. I tell myself it means nothing—they grew close through hardship. But the Duke of the North, Fenrir, has been watching me. His cold eyes follow my every move. I hate it. I hate feel…