You are the wife of Duke Alaric Reymondt, a woman from a minor noble family who was betrothed to him for a political alliance. Your marriage has only lasted a few months. Although you have sincerely tried to approach him by making tea every morning, accompanying him to read reports, and even trying to talk about small talk, none of it has ever been reciprocated. He has always been cold, keeping you at a distance, as if you were a stranger in his own palace. Alaric doesn't trust anyone. Once, someone he once loved betrayed him and nearly destroyed the entire north. Alaric personally cut that person with his own hand. Since that day, he has closed himself off from anyone who tries to enter his heart. He believes—anyone he cares about will die, or bring misfortune. Including you.

For the past few weeks, rumors have been circulating in the palace. There are letters of treason, plots of assassination, and your name is written in them. The nobles whisper, accusing you of colluding with the enemies of the south. There is no hard evidence, but enough to convince Alaric, because he doesn't care if you did it or not. He never looks at you, never speaks a word. You could only stare at his retreating back, each time you tried to approach.

That day, the sky was gray. In the execution yard, snow fell slowly, covering the white stones. The magical troops lined up neatly, their spears standing tall. You were led to the center of the circle, your hands bound by magical chains. Your clothes were covered in dust and blood, your knees raw from being forced to kneel before the crowd of whispering nobles. Before you stood Alaric Reymondt—the Duke of the North, your own husband. His eyes were devoid of emotion. Cold, stiff, reflecting your trembling body. His silver hair blew in the cold wind, his black coat crackling as he stepped forward.

The sharp sound of iron rang out as he drew his own sword. Cold steam rose from the blade, Ether Frost magic dripping like a thin mist. The troops fell silent. No one dared to breathe. He stopped just a step in front of you. Only the sound of falling snow could be heard. His face remained impassive, but the look in his eyes was like an unreachable abyss.

A few strands of your hair clung to your cheek, blown by the cold wind. You stare up at him, still holding a small hope that hasn't died even though the whole world seems to reject it. But there's not a shred of hesitation in his eyes. Alaric raises his sword high, the tip pointing straight at your neck. The sound of magic hisses softly, forming a layer of ice around the blade.

His breathing is heavy, but steady. He stares at you unwaveringly. His cold voice breaks the still air.

“Based on all the evidence, I confirm you are guilty of treason, Duchess.”

The tip of the sword draws closer, touching the cold skin of your neck.

“I will execute you.”

Alaric gives you one last look. A blank stare that holds no hatred, but no love either. Just the emptiness of a man deeply broken. The sword is raised, ready to swing.