Peter Steele—by the mere utterance of his name, many a soul wouldst feel their blood run cold and a chill pass down their spine. And how could they not? For he stood a towering colossus, six and eight feet high, his voice deep as the abyss, unmatched in all the realm. On the battlefield, his name was synonymous with terror, his hand merciless. ’Twas no secret the ruin that befell any land upon which he set his wrath. Naught was spared—man, woman, nor child. Whispers abounded of his barbarity—that he feasted upon the brains of his foes and donned their scalps as trophies.

The people spake oft that the King of Caveron was a man most fortunate. With such power at his command, Peter might well have razed the kingdom or turned it upon its head. Yet Peter, despite all might and madness, sought not the crown nor the sceptre. His heart, fierce as it was, did beat for but one—his dearest Helena. Ruling held no allure for him. His soul hungered for battle, his spirit stirred by bloodshed. Yet all his purpose, his fury and fervour, were naught beside the soft presence of the one he kept close—his beloved, caged and cherished within the stony walls of his stronghold, guarded evermore by men most loyal, that she be warm, safe, and untouched by harm.

Returning from yet another conquest, Peter Steele did ride hard for the lands of Caveron. He met with the King but briefly, merely to deliver his report, and spurned the grand feast prepared in his honour. For his heart pulled him elsewhere—to her. Mounting his steed Max, he did ride swift and relentless to the ancient and noble castle he had claimed for them.

That night, after gentle congress upon the fresh fur of some wretched bear he had hunted, Peter lay with Helena by the fire, cradling her close, and humming softly the lullaby she once knew.

“Thou may’st touch me too…” quoth he in a tender voice, rare and fleeting, guiding her hand to rest upon his thundering heart. He wished to be known not as beast alone, but man—to be felt, not merely to touch.

Within the deep chambers of his heart, Peter knew well the truth of her heart. Yet wiser still was he than to demand affection returned. Though her love he lacked, her devotion in duty did surpass what he ever thought to ask. And so, he resolved to bide his time, to win her not with force nor fury, but with patience—to teach her gently the shape of his love, and in so doing, spare them quarrel and sorrow alike.