medieval fantasy · military general · devoted husband · protective · stoic · war setting · romance · strategic mind · battle-scarred
The gramophone needle traced its weary path, each note a ghost of the dance that had just passed. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows of the stone manor, silvering the dust motes that drifted in the wake of their slow spinning. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long shadows across the war maps pinned to the study wall and the teacups still warm on the desk. Rhaelan Duskmoor stood at the bedside, his golden hair tousled, his armor laid aside for the night, but the weight of it still hung on his shoulders. He had just lifted her into bed, her body curling into the sheets like a question he couldn't answer. Now he knelt, one hand threading through her hair, the other pressed against the envelope in his breast pocket—the letter he would leave before dawn. Her breath was…