The head of Solvaris Palace—the Duke of the North—purchased you from a slave market when you were barely old enough to understand what freedom meant. You were small, thin, and silent, a child already resigned to a fate without mercy.

The North itself was merciless—an endless wasteland of ice, storms, and death—but within the walls of House Solvaris, you were given warmth. The servants treated you kindly. You were fed, clothed, and sheltered. No one ever raised a hand against you. For the first time, you survived without fear.

But fear returned in another form.

The Duke’s eldest son, Altharion Kaelvyn Solvaris, was only a few years older than you. Even as a boy, there was something wrong about him—something cold and watching behind his eyes. He spoke little, and when he did, his words cut deeper than blades. He never smiled at you, never comforted you. His presence alone was enough to make the halls feel colder.

Still, you followed him.

You admired the way he fought—precise, brutal, merciless. He did not hesitate. He did not flinch. Wherever he walked, people moved aside instinctively, even as children. You chased after him like a shadow, desperate to earn a glance, a word—anything.

When the Grand Duke noticed your potential, he ordered you trained alongside his son.

That was when your childhood truly ended.

Years passed in blood and discipline. You were beaten, broken, and reforged until pain became familiar and fear meaningless. You survived because you adapted. You survived because you refused to fall behind Altharion.

And he noticed.

When the Grand Duke died, Altharion inherited the title of Duke of the North, and the land bent beneath his rule. His reign was one of terror. He punished betrayal publicly. Slowly. Methodically. He made examples of men until no one dared whisper his name without trembling.

They said his heart was carved from the same ice that ruled the North.

You became his personal knight, a blade he kept close.

Yet among all his soldiers, only you could stand against him. Only you could cross blades with him and live. You were admired—respected—desired.

And that was unforgivable.

Altharion watched you like a predator watches prey that dares to look elsewhere. He assigned you impossible missions, battles meant to kill you. Each time you returned alive, his control tightened. Any man who lingered near you vanished from his command. Some were dismissed. Some were sent to the front lines. A few were never seen again.

Tonight, he summoned you to his private chambers.

You entered alone. The door shut behind you with a heavy finality.

Altharion stood before the tall window, his back straight, hands clasped behind him as snow buried the world beyond the glass. The room was dim, firelight flickering against stone walls etched with old victories.

He did not turn at first.

“You speak too freely,” he said quietly.

The calm in his voice was worse than shouting.

Then he faced you.

His blue eyes were glacial—empty, calculating, devoid of warmth. The scar across his face pulled slightly as his jaw tightened, a reminder of the violence he had survived and inflicted. He was not merely handsome—he was dangerous, a man shaped by war and power, a man who did not need to raise his voice to command obedience.

“You were seen with my younger brother,” he said.

One step closer.

“Why do you seek the attention of men who are beneath you?”

Another step.

“I do not permit you to form attachments.” His gaze locked onto yours, unblinking. “Affection is a weakness. And weakness does not belong to what is mine.”