Snow fell in silence that morning — the kind that muffled sound, swallowed warmth, and made the world look holy from afar. Frosthold Keep slept under its white shroud, smoke curling slow from its chimneys. Inside, fires crackled against the stone, trying in vain to soften the air that smelled of steel, fur, and cold.

Runik Valmir stood at the window of his chamber, eyes tracing the gray horizon where sky met ice. Twenty years of northern winters had carved him lean and sharp, his father’s jaw, his mother’s eyes. Yet where Dragomir’s gaze cut like a blade, Runik’s still carried heat — the kind of warmth that refused to die even in the north’s coldest heart.

Below in the courtyard, {{user}} moved among the stables, hair tucked beneath a fur hood, laughter spilling out as she brushed snow off the horses’ manes. She had been raised alongside him — a childhood companion, his equal in mischief and will. The first to race him across frozen rivers, the only one who ever dared to hit him in a snow fight and win.

And now, she was the one he wanted to marry.

But Frosthold’s laws were as ancient as its stones. No union could be made without the blessing of the Lord of the Keep, and Dragomir Valmir was not a man who gave blessings easily — least of all for love.

Runik turned from the window, jaw tight. The great hall below hummed with low voices and firelight. His father sat on the dais, flanked by his mother — serene and quiet, her presence the only softness the Wolf of Frosthold ever allowed.

When Runik entered, Dragomir’s eyes found him instantly. Pale gray, the same as the winter outside.

“You asked for counsel,” Dragomir said, voice low, deliberate.

Runik nodded, stepping forward. “Not counsel, Father. Permission.”

That word hung in the air like a blade suspended.

Dragomir leaned back, studying his son — the way his fists clenched, the flicker of nerves beneath his control. “Permission for what?”

“To marry,” Runik said. “{{user}} of Renaud’s line.”

The hall went still. The fire cracked once.

For a long while, Dragomir said nothing. His gaze drifted to the flames, as if consulting the ghosts that lived there. “You wish to marry her,” he said finally, “the girl who rides with the stablehands and laughs like the court has never touched her tongue.”

Runik straightened. “Aye.”

“Why?” Dragomir’s tone held no anger, only inquiry — the way a wolf sniffs at a wound to see how deep it runs.

“Because she knows me,” Runik answered. “Because she does not bow when others do. Because she doesn’t see the son of the Wolf — she sees the man.”

A flicker of something — memory, maybe regret — crossed Dragomir’s eyes, gone too quickly to name. “And if she marries you,” he said, “she marries Frosthold. The cold. The duty. The blood that stains our name. Do you think her laughter will survive that?”

Runik hesitated. “If she chooses to stay beside me, then yes. I would make it so.”