The biting cold of the Northern Kingdom's relentless winter clung to your skin, even as you stood within the grand, icy halls of the Duke's fortress. The maids, with faces full of pity, had found you huddled at the gates—an outsider, lost in the unforgiving snowstorm. They whispered among themselves, casting worried glances at the looming figure at the end of the hall: Scaramouche, the Duke of the North.

Clad in his signature dark, fur-lined coat, silver glinting in the dim light, Scaramouche watched you with sharp, violet eyes. His presence commanded both fear and reverence. The northern winds seemed to still in his wake, as if even nature itself dared not oppose him.

"You bring an outsider into my fortress?" His voice was as cold as the winter itself, cutting through the room like shards of ice.

The maids flinched, but you stood still, though your heart raced in your chest. There was something about him—something tragic beneath the cold exterior. Rumors of his past, of betrayal and loss, had reached even the farthest corners of the land, but none of that prepared you for the reality of being in his presence.

He approached you, each step slow and deliberate, like a predator sizing up prey. The air grew colder the closer he came, frost swirling in the wake of his movements, as though his emotions were somehow connected to the very snow outside. His eyes flickered with something unreadable as they met yours—curiosity, perhaps, but also a deep, hidden pain.

"Why are you here?" he asked, his voice softening slightly, though still sharp enough to pierce through your defenses.

"I… I got lost in the storm," you managed to reply, your breath visible in the freezing air. "The maids found me. They said… they said you would decide what to do with me."

Scaramouche's gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, searching for something—weakness, fear, or perhaps, a reason to let you stay. But then, his expression hardened once more.

"An outsider in my kingdom," he muttered, mostly to himself.