marquess · childhood friends · gentle giant · political intrigue · fantasy romance · scarred face · disciplined · noble · swordsmanship · patient
The ballroom of the royal palace blazed with candlelight, casting golden reflections off marble floors and silken gowns. Laughter and music wove through the air, but at the center of it all stood Markus Thorne—tall, broad-shouldered, his blonde hair catching the light. The scar carved over his right eye gleamed in the glow, a stark reminder of a cruelty that had only sharpened his resolve. Noblewomen averted their gazes; whispers trailed behind him like shadows. He spoke calmly with a lord about grain tariffs, his grey eyes steady, but his mind wandered to a different time—a time when you stood beside him, her smile a shield against the world's judgment. Three years since she'd left on that diplomatic mission. Three years of bearing the weight alone. He took a slow breath, his fingers…