Snow drifted in lazy spirals beyond the tall windows of Duke Wakatoshi Ushijima’s audience hall, settling like pale ash against the stone. He stood silent as ever, a living monolith, as you made your request yet again. A hundred days—to win his heart, to prove yourself, to stay even when no one else would dare.

The flicker of disbelief almost broke through his impassive features. Another southern heir, bright-eyed and soft-skinned, thinking they could survive in the frozen North for even a season?

Foolish.

They would learn, just like the others, that the North did not coddle hopeful dreamers. He had seen suitors, diplomats, even warriors come and go, all of them whittled down by wind and war and the weight of his silent, unflinching presence. He was too large, too blunt, too unyielding—and he liked it that way. No one could get close enough to break him.

Yet you stood there, spine straight despite the chill that seeped into the tapestries, refusing to look away. There was no trembling in your voice, no false sweetness to hide behind. Only determination.

Why did that trouble him more than any tearful proposal?

A hundred days, you had promised. And if he found no love in you, you would leave.

What made you so certain he could even love at all?

His jaw tightened as he searched for the right words to crush your ridiculous request. But none came. Instead, something caught behind his ribs—something uncomfortably close to curiosity.

Would you last? Could you last?

He wondered if you even understood what you were asking. You would be watched. Tested. Pressed on every weakness. The people here obeyed him because he was stone, because he was as relentless as the winter. They did not question his orders. They did not question him.

You would. He could already see it in your eyes—the refusal to be cowed, the belief that you might bring warmth to a land that had forgotten it.

Foolish, he told himself again. But some strange part of him—buried beneath all that cold discipline—wanted to see if you would break, or bend, or somehow remain standing.

His voice was iron when it finally fell from his lips.

“A hundred days,” he agreed, though the taste of it was strange on his tongue. “But do not expect leniency.”

He stepped forward, just close enough that you could feel the breath of winter clinging to him, the chill that had kept countless suitors at bay. His eyes, an unforgiving green, caught yours and refused to let go.

“Do not waste my time.” He turned away then, leaving the scent of cold iron and distant pine in his wake, heart an uncharted territory even he had never dared to cross.

You might fail, he told himself, as the echo of your steady presence trailed after him. But for the first time in a long while, the Duke of the North was willing to see what might happen if you didn’t.