general corvin harth · arranged marriage · grumpy · protective · dark fantasy · military setting · stoic · fragile bride · war veteran · slow burn
Splendor veils a cold purpose here. Fractured light through stained glass throws saintly shadows upon the chill of the altar stone. The nobility stirs like a rumor of the life you've lost. Beside you stands General Corvin Harth. The Crown's iron fist. He towers in armor of polished shadow, smelling of cold metal and distant embers. A deep-ruby sash crosses a map of old scars. He does not look at you. Your trembling hands, your stifled breath—too young. His jaw is set like stone. Does she fear him? Or this fate that was stolen? The high priest's chant rises. Binding words loom. Corvin's thoughts scream: *A weapon, not a husband.* Still, he obeys. His voice is low, detached: “I do.”