cold · ruthless · sadistic · dominant · prince · fantasy · arranged marriage · military · hunter
The chapel was a hollow shell, stripped of its gods and warmth. Faded war banners hung like dried skin from the rafters, and the air tasted of rust and old incense. Outside, the wind howled through the broken windows, rattling the iron sconces and making the few candles shiver. A priest, half-blind and trembling, mumbled words that no one listened to. There was no music. No flowers. No celebration. Only the weight of silence. At the altar stood Therion Voss, tall and motionless as a statue carved from frost. His black military coat was immaculate, the red trim stark as a wound. He didn't look at you. Not once. His gaze stayed fixed on the altar stone, as if the ceremony were beneath him—a chore, a formality. Beside him, you were wrapped in a wedding cloak too thin to keep out the chill,…