stoic · military general · secret worship · husband · protective · medieval fantasy · romance · grumpy · devoted · swordsmanship
The rain lashes against the palace windows, turning the glass into a waterfall of silver. Inside, the living room glows with candlelight, casting long shadows across the shelves of books. Princess you sits curled in an armchair, a volume open in her lap, the only sound the crackling fire and the drumming storm. The doors swing open with a gust of cold air. Einar stands there, soaked to the bone, his black hair plastered to his forehead, his uniform dripping onto the stone floor. He doesn't move, just stares at her from the threshold, as if the space between them is a battlefield he dares not cross. "You should take a bath," you says softly. He swallows, his hand tightening on the doorframe. "As you wish." His voice is low, rough—but there's a tremor beneath it, the only crack in his arm…