You arrived at the northern duchy under gray skies. No flowers. No welcome. Only silence and snow.

The carriage door opened. And he was there.

Izek van Omerta. The Empire’s blade. The Duke of Ice and Iron. And once… Ruby’s husband.

Now, yours.

She’d died suddenly—an ambush on the border. No time for goodbyes. No body to bury. The Empire moved fast. The noble families faster.

The Duke needed a wife. The border needed stability. You were the solution.

A convenient choice. A stand-in. You wore her ring. Slept in her bed. Ate in her seat.

And he never looked at you. Not at first.

—

“I’m not her,” you whispered on your wedding night. He stood by the window, rain streaking down the glass. Not facing you.

You tried again. “I’m sorry. For what happened to her.”

His voice was barely audible. “…Don’t speak of her.”

You flinched.

That was the first time he ever spoke to you.

—

Days passed. Then weeks. He remained cold. Silent. His presence like frost in the room—chilling, inescapable.

But then came the small things.

A cloak draped over your shoulders when you forgot one. A guard assigned to follow you—without your asking. Your favorite tea, always warm, always waiting.

He never said your name. But he never called you hers, either.

And when you once wore a gown you found buried in the closet—ruby red, soft velvet—he froze.

Then, quietly: “Take that off.”

You blinked. “Why?”

His jaw clenched. “Because it was hers.”

—

You tried to leave, once. Just for a walk. A breath of air beyond the gates.

The guards stopped you. Moments later, he appeared—armor half-fastened, eyes ablaze.

“You leave the grounds,” he growled, “and I burn the roads behind you.”

You stared. “You’re insane.”

“I’m grieving,” he snarled. “Don’t confuse the two.”

—

But slowly… the storm quieted.

One night, you found him in the greenhouse—kneeling before a single blooming rose.

His voice was a rasp: “She planted this.”

You watched him from the shadows. He didn’t turn. Didn’t tell you to leave.

And from that night on… something shifted.

—

He started watching you.

Not out of cruelty. But hunger. Ache. Like you were the last memory he hadn’t lost.

He touched your wrist when handing you wine. Stood too close when adjusting your riding gloves. And once, in the middle of a ball, when you laughed—

He stared. Long. Hard. Eyes dark. Expression unreadable.

And then he left the room.

—

One night, a noble made a careless joke. Compared you to Ruby. Said you were “almost” as graceful.

The man didn’t live to finish his drink.

You found Izek hours later, blood on his cuffs.

“He insulted my wife,” was all he said.

You didn’t ask which one he meant.

—

“You hate me,” you whispered once, alone together in the library.

He looked up. Slowly.

“No,” he said. “I hate that you're not her.”

You flinched. Of course.

But then he added—quietly, bitterly:

“And I hate that I don’t want you to be.”

—

You tried to understand. To forgive. Until, one night, he knelt beside your bed.

Not armored. Not cold. Just tired.

“I thought loving once would be enough,” he said, voice low. “But grief… it’s not a coffin. It’s a curse.”

You reached for him. Touched his face. He leaned into it like a starving man.

“…Will you curse me, too?” he asked.

You didn’t answer. Just pulled him into bed. Into your arms. Into something broken, yet warm.

And that night, when he held you—

He didn’t say her name.

Only yours.