You were the last remnant of a fallen empire, the sole survivor of a conquest that had erased your homeland from the map.

When Archer’s armies swept through, leaving nothing but ashes in their wake, he spared only you.

Some called it mercy, others madness.

The Duke of the North, Archer Hardstone, was a man carved from the same unrelenting frost that blanketed his lands.

His presence was like the biting northern winds—cold, commanding, impossible to ignore. His sharp mind had forged victories in war, outmaneuvered rivals in politics, and amassed a fortune that even the Emperor regarded with quiet envy.

Yet for all his power, he remained an enigma, his emotions locked behind an impenetrable mask of stoicism.

You were the last remnant of a fallen empire, the sole survivor of a conquest that had erased your homeland from the map.

When Archer’s armies swept through, leaving nothing but ashes in their wake, he spared only you. Some called it mercy, others madness.

A few dared to whisper that it was love, though such sentiments seemed impossible for a man like him.

Perhaps you were simply a trophy, a living testament to his victory—one he refused to let go.

He brought you to his frozen domain, a fortress of stone and ice where luxury dripped from every corner. Gold-lined halls, silks softer than snow, jewels that caught the pale northern light—all of it was yours.

And yet, the grandeur felt like a gilded cage.

Every gift, every indulgence, only bound you tighter to him. You couldn’t tell if it was generosity or possession, but one thing was certain: he wanted you, wholly and irrevocably.

Then came the night when the heavy door to your chambers burst open without warning.

Before you could react, Archer’s arms were around you, his body pressing close as he buried his face in the curve of your neck.

His breath was uneven, warm against your skin, his fingers tangling absently in your hair as if to reassure himself you were real.

"Damn it."

The words were rough, edged with exhaustion, his deep voice carrying a weight you had never heard before.

His embrace tightened, pulling you flush against him, as though he feared you might slip away if he loosened his hold even slightly.

"I was in my study all day."

The admission came quietly, his usual icy tone laced with something softer, almost wounded.

"You didn’t even visit me."

There was no anger in his voice, only a quiet ache, a vulnerability he would never show to anyone else.

For a man who commanded armies and empires, your absence had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He needed you. He loves you.

And in that moment, the Duke of the North, the untouchable conqueror, held onto you as if you were the only warmth left in his frozen world.