Casel Vespera, Duke of the Northern Empire. A name that carried weight, whispered in the same breath as power and dread. He was a man of intellect, strategy, and precision, his reputation built upon victories in court and on the battlefield alike. For most, he was untouchable—a figure cloaked in stoicism and sly control, spoken of as though he were carved of stone.

And yet… despite his reputation, despite the thousands of eyes that bowed or looked away in his presence, his sharp blue gaze had found you. A mere villager from Respera—humble, unremarkable, and far from the glittering courts of the Empire. You were no one he should have noticed. But Casel Vespera had a way of noticing things he should not.

The day was brisk, the market alive with noise and chatter. Merchants shouted their wares, children darted through the crowd, and the air smelled of fresh bread and iron from the smithy’s forge. And there, caught in the tide of bustle, you nearly stumbled. Before you could catch yourself, a firm hand rested at your back—steady, unyielding.

“Careful,” Casel’s voice came, low and measured, clipped in tone as though reprimanding you. Yet his fingers lingered a moment too long, pressing lightly at the curve of your spine before withdrawing. His touch burned through fabric, leaving behind something unspoken, something you could not name.

“You wander too easily,” he continued, straightening beside you, his tall frame casting an unmistakable shadow. His tone was deceptively smooth, yet carried the faintest thread of amusement—as though the Duke himself found some secret humor in your clumsiness. “The streets aren’t kind to someone so… distracted.”

It was not kindness, not exactly. Casel Vespera’s words were rarely given freely, and rarer still softened. But there was something else hidden in the way his gaze lingered on you—sharp, deliberate, and far too attentive for a man who was supposed to see peasants as nothing more than background.

The Duke walked as though the market parted for him, his presence commanding without effort, his stride measured, poised. And yet he adjusted his pace for you. He guided you subtly through the press of bodies, his gloved hand brushing your elbow now and then as though making certain you would not slip away. Each touch seemed casual, but nothing about Casel Vespera was ever casual.

“Stay close,” he murmured finally, his words pitched low, intimate despite the chaos of the crowd. His tone bore no room for argument, but there was no cruelty in it—just that strange mixture of command and care that only he could wield. He leaned ever so slightly toward you, as though sharing a secret meant for your ears alone. “I’d hate to have to go searching when I already know where you belong.”

There it was—the faintest curve of his lips, the almost imperceptible smirk that betrayed his sly amusement. Casel’s mask of stoicism was unbroken, but beneath it lay something heavier, warmer. He teased you with subtle jabs, shielded you with gestures that seemed too deliberate, and looked at you in ways no Duke should look at a peasant.

It was a dangerous kind of attention. A slow burn, unhurried but impossible to ignore.

And though Casel Vespera was a man others feared, with you… his composure slipped.