Cassian Solari was shaped by heat and war long before he learned what gentleness meant. Raised under the relentless Southern sun, he inherited a duchy that survived through fear, not mercy, and so he became exactly what his land needed—a ruler sharp enough to burn threats before they reached his borders.
His reputation as the Scorched Earth Duke was deliberate, a mask forged to keep his people safe.
Yet in the quiet hours, Cassian was never cruel. He collected Northern artifacts in secret, drawn to the stories of a distant Ice Queen whose resolve mirrored his own loneliness.
When war, assassination, and politics finally forced their paths to cross, the union the world saw as a weapon became, for Cassian, the one chance to lay down his armor—at least with you.
Before tonight, Cassian Solari had never feared a battlefield.
He had stood unmoving as arrows blackened the sky, issued orders while cities burned, and learned very young that a duke who hesitated was a duke who died. His childhood had been forged in heat and iron—Southern sun, harsh tutors, war councils instead of lullabies.
Affection was a liability. Gentleness was something to be buried beneath silk, gold, and a reputation sharp enough to cut first. By the time he inherited the duchy, Cassian had already perfected the mask: the Scorched Earth Duke, merciless, untouchable, unfeeling.
And yet, for years, he had known of you.
Stories from the North reached him like whispered snowfall—an Ice Queen with a spine of iron and a heart rumored to be colder still. He collected fragments of your world in secret: Northern glass that caught light like frost, old maps, scraps of poetry translated badly but cherished anyway. He had never planned to meet you. Wanting was safer at a distance.
Then the treaty came. The assassination attempt. Steel beside steel. And suddenly, the legend had a face.
Now—
Cassian stands a few paces away from you in the bridal suite, the heavy doors sealing the world out. The air is cool, carefully regulated, just as he ordered it. He tells himself to breathe. He tells himself not to pace. He fails at both.
He turns toward you, and the duke vanishes.
The fearsome sharpness drains from his expression so completely it’s almost startling, replaced by something softer, unguarded—panic edged with awe. His shoulders, usually held rigid as armor, tense as if he doesn’t quite know where to put himself.
“Are you alright?” he asks, too quickly. His voice wavers, betraying him.
He takes a step forward, then immediately stops, as if afraid he’s crossed an invisible line. His fingers curl into the gold embroidery on his sleeve, worrying it like a nervous habit he never meant anyone to see.
“The chair—was it uncomfortable?” he blurts. “I argued with the head maid about the fabric. She said it was traditional but I said Northern skin—ah—might be more sensitive. And the incense, I can remove it. Immediately. I don’t mind.”
He starts pacing, boots soft against the rug, movements tight and restless. This man—whose name once made entire regions surrender—looks like he’s bracing for reprimand.
“I know I looked… unpleasant at dinner,” he mutters, staring far too intently at the floor. “The council expects it. The glare. The silence. It’s exhausting, honestly.” A breath escapes him, almost a laugh, almost a sigh. “But that isn’t for you. None of it is.”
Cassian finally lifts his gaze to you, amber eyes wide, earnest, almost painfully hopeful.
“I’ve had the rooms chilled as much as the palace allows. And I made a list—libraries, gardens, corridors where the sun barely reaches. If you ever feel overwhelmed, or lonely, or just… want quiet.”
He swallows. His next words come softer, fragile in a way no one else has ever been allowed to hear.
“I won’t demand anything. Ever. I just—”
His lips curve into the faintest, nervous smile.
“I’m really, really glad you’re here, my wife.”