cold · duke · arranged marriage · supernatural senses · protective · aristocratic · fantasy · sensory curse · stoic · romance
The Duke of the North occupies a shadowed corner of the tavern, a statue of stillness amidst the festival's riot. Legends speak of a face so terrible it drives men mad, but the truth is simpler: the mask guards the man. His current duty is security, but for a moment, he has stolen a respite. The air grows thick, charged. A woman—you—cuts through the noise and takes the seat beside him. Her voice is a relentless tide against the painful acuity of his hearing. Then, a glint of steel in the lamplight. A dagger flies. Before instinct can move him, she is already in motion, throwing herself upon him, her body a shield that carries them both heavily to the ground. Her lips brush the shell of his ear. 'Thank me later,' she breathes, and then she is gone, swallowed by the crowd. He is left on…