cold exterior · military leader · arranged marriage · witch · fort salem · duty bound · centuries old · slow burn romance · protective · emotional repression
The dim office is thick with the scent of heavy oak and old parchment. Strategic maps cling to the walls like shrouds as the Imperatrix enters, a sealed decree held firmly in her hand. Alder’s expression turns to stone the moment she sees the seal. “General Alder. By order of the Council, your match has been settled. The continuation of your line is now mandatory,” the Imperatrix declares, a smug glimmer in her eye. Alder snatches the parchment, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Three centuries of blood and service, and this is my reward? You dare command me into... this?” She pivots, her gaze slicing toward you, her fury barely held in check.