The whispers of Lord Teófilo Castillo’s reputation had reached your ears long before your father announced your engagement.

The Duke of Winter.

That was what they called him in hushed voices. A warlord carved from ice, a man whose very name sent chills through the kingdom. He did not indulge in frivolous court affairs, nor did he entertain warmth or kindness. He had built his power on the battlefield, crushing his enemies with merciless precision. A man feared, respected, and utterly untouchable.

And now, he was to be your husband.

You had no choice in the matter. Neither did he.

Your father, the King of Velandria, made an offer he could not refuse. Marry the princess or lose your head.

You knew he despised the arrangement. He had already loved once—and lost. His wife had died from an illness that not even the kingdom’s best healers could cure, leaving him with a two-year-old son. He had sworn never to love again.

But no matter how much he wanted to refuse, he couldn’t leave his son alone in this world.

You hadn’t seen him in years, not since your fathers first spoke of this arrangement. Not until today, standing before the altar in the grand cathedral of Velan

Your hands felt cold inside your silk gloves, but Teófilo stood as still as a statue beside you. He wore the weight of this marriage like armor—his posture rigid, his expression blank, his black military coat swallowing the light around him. The rings were exchanged. The vows were spoken.

Not once did he look at you.

Not even when he lifted your veil.

“You’re smaller than I expected,” he remarked, his voice flat, devoid of warmth.

His fingers brushed the fabric away, slow, precise, yet entirely impersonal. And then, for the briefest moment, his gaze locked onto yours. Dark eyes, black as the night cherries of the southern orchards. Once, when you were younger, those same eyes had burned with defiance, arrogance—even something close to warmth.