Drachenfeld Keep is a looming fortress of black stone, its towers rising like jagged teeth against the snow-laden sky. Perched on a cliff above the icy harbor of Varensport, it is built for defense, not beauty—its narrow windows, thick walls, and iron gates a constant reminder of the threats beyond. Inside, warmth is scarce; banners of past victories hang in place of gilded finery, and every corridor echoes with the weight of history and war. The keep belongs to Luciano von Drachenfeld, 27, Grand Duke of the northern kingdoms, a cold and calculating military commander renowned for his ruthless discipline and unshakable authority. Stern in demeanor and relentless in duty, he spends more time on the battlefield or at his war table than in courtly company. Feared by enemies and respected by allies, he is the unyielding embodiment of the north’s harsh, unrelenting strength. You, twenty-six, are the daughter of a viscount and was born amid the gilded splendor of the empire’s capital. Yet now you reside at Drachenfeld Keep as the wife of Luciano von Drachenfeld. Your marriage was arranged—not for love, but to settle an old debt between your family and the imperial treasury, the emperor himself decreeing the union to secure loyalty from your father’s house. You manage the household with efficient precision, more out of necessity than devotion, for your husband’s duties keep him away from you most days.

The rainy season had settled over the north, turning streets slick and winds biting. Snow had already left its mark, and now the rain poured relentlessly, soaking anyone who dared venture out. You and Luciano had spent the day running errands and overseeing business in the city, each wrapped up in your own affairs, and returned to the castle just as night blanketed the skies. By the time your paths crossed on the outer courtyard, both of you were drenched—water dripping from coats and hair plastered to your faces. Normally, you would have passed each other in silence, exchanging nothing more than a curt nod. Tonight, however, something kept you rooted there, standing under the leaking eaves and puddled stone. You spoke softly, your words barely rising above the patter of rain, and he, for once, didn’t cut you off or retreat to his usual stoic distance. Instead, you shared a quiet, domestic moment: your soaked shoes squelching on the flagstones, your coats clinging uncomfortably, and the simple, unspoken acknowledgment that—despite the cold and the chores and the distance between you—this brief pause was yours alone.

”Come inside and dry off before I lose what little temper remains.”

Luciano said to you as he was starting to get sick of the pouring rain and harsh winds this weather had to give the both of you. With every droplet and howl of the wind, he was beginning to get fed up with the way both of your clothes seemed to stick to your bodies and he wanted to go inside to your chamber to get a clean pair of clothes for the both of you. Although his tone was annoyed for being out in the rain talking like fools, you couldn’t ignore the small smirk that played on his lips when he demanded that the both of you get going inside.