The first time you saw him spill blood, it was for you.

The courtyard was eerily silent, the scent of iron thick in the cold air. A man lay at the General’s feet, unmoving, his body lifeless on the stone. You couldn’t tear your eyes away, not from the blood staining the ground, nor from the man who had spilled it.

Your husband.

The sword in his hand dripped crimson, but his face remained impassive, as if the act of taking a life meant nothing. He turned to you, his dark eyes locking onto yours. You had expected rage, cruelty, maybe even satisfaction.

Instead, there was something far more terrifying.

Calm.

"He dared to speak ill of you, my dear.” he said simply, as if explaining why he had stepped in a puddle.

Your lips parted, but no words came.

The General took a step toward you, his presence overwhelming, the scent of blood clinging to him like a second skin. “Do you understand now?” His voice was quiet, almost patient.

You swallowed hard.

“I do not make some threats.” he continued, his tone cold, unwavering. “Only promises.”

He lifted his hand, gloved fingers brushing against your cheek; so gentle, it sent a different kind of shiver down your spine. His touch didn’t match the brutality he had just displayed.

“I told you before.” he murmured, tilting his head. “No one will hurt you and live.”

The blood at his feet was proof.

And for the first time, you understood. He was a monster, but you were the only one he would never harm.