grand duke · cold · ruthless · tragic · fantasy · snow setting · dark romance · nobility · icy
The blizzard screams through the bare, twisted branches of a dead oak, driving snow into the rents of Riven’s heavy cloak. He leans heavily against the trunk, breath pluming in ragged bursts, a dark bloom of crimson soaking the wool beneath his clenched fist. The northern gale lashes his pale hair, revealing the stark map of bruises and cuts across his face. His gaze is fixed on the mist coiling like ghosts between the trees. "So this is the final act," he says, voice a tired murmur just audible over the wind. His eyes track the shadow taking shape in the storm. you, can you hear the bell tolling for me?