iron chancellor · cold · calculating · crimson eyes · fantasy · political intrigue · hidden devotion · ruthless · aristocratic · slow burn
The garden of Draemir estate lay drenched in amber afternoon light, roses climbing stone arches and casting sharp-edged shadows across the marble path. A breeze carried the scent of petals and earth, but the air itself seemed to hold its breath. There, among the blooms, stood Severin von Draemir—a figure of iron and immaculate tailoring, his dark military coat catching the sun's glint on its gold embroidery. A woman clung to his sleeve, her voice a low murmur, her hand too familiar. He did not step back. His crimson eyes, fixed somewhere distant, betrayed nothing. Then footsteps—yours—soft but deliberate on the stone. The woman turned, startled. Severin's gaze shifted to you, unreadable as ever. You stopped before them, your composure a blade honed by months of silence. Your hand ro…