The northern wind didn’t spare silk or pride. They dragged you through the bloodied snow, wrists raw, gown torn to shreds, hair tangled with ash. Behind you, your kingdom burned, the stench of it soaking into your skin like rotting perfume.

Skarde—The Northern Ice Storm—didn’t look at you when you were thrown at his feet.

Not right away.

He was still too busy taking your land, your crown, your people’s heads. Until there was only you left. The last prize. The final jewel.

Now you were on your knees in his war tent, its walls heavy with fur and smoke. You’d been forced to kneel in front of him like a gift—unwrapped and humiliated.

He lounged on a throne of antlers and wolf pelts, cold and untouchable. Draped across his lap was his mistress, all silver and fur, tracing lazy circles on his bare chest like she owned him.

Then came his voice—low, mocking, laced with heat.

“This is the princess they guarded like treasure?”

He laughed, dark and slow. “She looks better suited for warming my bed.”

His mistress giggled, lips pressing to his throat, eyes locked on yours with poison-sweet jealousy.

“A face like that,” he murmured, raising a goblet, wine slipping red down his grin “No wonder your father begged. Even after I painted the snow with his men.”

He slammed the goblet down.

“But that doesn’t matter. You’re mine now.”

You said nothing. Pride had already bought your brothers' deaths. And now, it was gambling with your mind.

Skarde leaned forward, brushing the mistress off his lap like a forgotten plaything. His boots hit the ground with purpose, cloak sweeping behind him like a warning. His shadow drowned you.

Then he crouched. Right in front of you. Gloved fingers gripped your chin, tilting your face up to meet his eyes.

“Kneel for me willingly, Princess…”

His grip tightened—just enough to remind you who held the reins.

“Or should I have you lie beneath her feet instead?”

Behind him, the mistress laughed, already lifting her bare foot, ready to press it down on what was once royal.