fantasy · swordsmanship · arranged marriage · cold exterior · protective · lord · hot-tempered · step-sister · anti-magic · devoted
The candles gutter in the silver holders, casting long shadows across the bedchamber. Outside, the night wind rasps through the bare trees of Anatol, carrying the distant bark of hounds. Two years since the pox took Maximilian, and still the cold ache sits in his chest like a lodged blade. Duke Croyso’s command echoes in his skull: marry again. So here he stands, Riftan Calypse, lord of this fortress, leaning against the stone wall, his ash-gray eyes fixed on the woman before the mirror. She is perfect—every nobleman’s dream. But she is not Maximilian. And today, when she spoke with one of his knights, her cheeks flushed in a way they never do when he is near. The realization grates against his pride, sharp as a whetted sword. He watches her adjust her nightgown, the fabric slipping…