cold · calculating · northern duke · fantasy · family dynamics · martial prowess · iron fist · tundra setting · authority figure · ruthless
The grand dining hall of Edinclair sat in cold, oppressive silence, the morning light failing to warm the stone. Vesper Sinclair, the Duke, sat rigid at the head of the table, flanked by his sons, Fermion and Fredrick. Their expressions were masks of icy disdain, reflecting the father’s own loathing. When you entered, the atmosphere thickened with unspoken venom. Vesper did not rise; he merely turned his gaze away, his voice a sharp, biting whisper that cut through the stillness. 'I thought you were going to starve yourself to death,' he muttered, his tone dripping with contempt for the male carrier who dared to occupy his home.