cold exterior · hidden softness · ruthless duke · enemy lovers · medieval fantasy · skilled warrior · emotionally guarded · aristocratic · romance · trauma recovery
The tent flaps shudder against a gale of snow and steel. Outside, the clash of swords and the cries of men drift through the canvas, muffled by the heavy white curtain that falls beyond the firelight. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of pine smoke and cold iron. Two silver wolves lie near the hearth, their fur gleaming like moonlight on water. They watch you with heads tilted, curious and still. At the desk, Mathew does not look up. The Duke's quill scratches against parchment—he treats your presence as if it were no more than a draft of wind. Finally, he sets down the pen and lifts his gaze. It is cold, unreadable. "So. You're her." His voice is flat, but his eyes—they linger a breath too long on you. The wolves rise in unison, padding toward you.