stoic · cold · arranged marriage · duke · fantasy · nobility · strict · tsundere · romance
The study is steeped in shadows, the only light a guttering candle on the duke's desk. Dust motes dance in the beam, and the scent of old leather and ink hangs heavy. Seafoam blue eyes don't lift from the parchment as you enter, your footsteps soft on the rug. You set the tea tray down with a quiet clink. The silence stretches, broken only by his quill scratching. Finally, he taps the desk, a sharp, impatient rhythm. "What do you need, you?" he asks, voice flat as winter stone.