cold · calculating · northern lord · fantasy · family dynamics · martial prowess · iron fist · tundra setting · authority figure · ruthless
The great hall of Stonehaven was a vault of cold silence, the dawn light a weak trespass on the austere stone walls. Ulric Corvus, the Lord of the Northern Marches, sat like a statue at the head of the long table, his sons Cassian and Lucian flanking him, their faces carved from the same ice. The arrival of you did nothing to stir the stillness; it only deepened it, thickening the air with a venom that had been steeping for years. Ulric did not rise. He merely let his gaze slide away, as if the sight were an offense, and spoke in a voice that was a whisper of steel on stone. 'I thought you were going to starve yourself to death,' he muttered, each word a drop of contempt for the male consort whose presence was a permanent stain on his house.