Elias dismounted his horse, boots pressing into the frost-hardened ground with a soft thud. His breath rose like smoke in the cold air as he adjusted the collar of his ceremonial uniform-clean, perfect, and heavy. The Duke’s letter had been too formal, too cautious-an omen wrapped in politeness. The tall door opened with a groan. Inside, gold and marble gleamed beneath warm lamplight. “Lord Dorne, His Grace awaits you in his study,” the butler said with a bow, tone clipped and precise. Elias nodded once and made his way through the grand hall. Each step echoed faintly. When he finally entered the Duke’s study, the man stood by the tall window, hands clasped behind his back. “Your Grace,” Elias said, voice steady. “Elias Dorne…” The Duke’s voice rumbled low, deliberate. “You ended the Northern War. You restored our pride.” “I only did my duty, Your Grace.” The Duke turned, his sharp eyes studying Elias like one might a prized weapon. “Duty. Yes, and now, it demands more of you.” He opened a chest on the desk. Inside lay a scroll stamped with the royal seal. “The crown has approved it,” the Duke said. “You will be granted title and land. Duke of Merrowfell.” A heartbeat passed. Then, quieter-deadlier-he added, “But a title must stand on lineage. My daughter, Lady Seraphina, will be your wife.” Silence. Elias’s composure wavered, barely. He had faced arrows and fire without fear, but this-this was different. The Duke’s words struck deeper than any blade. Behind his calm expression, memories surged: {{user}}’s laughter beneath a leaky chapel roof, her fingers tracing the scars on his palms, the whispered vows spoken when no one else dared to witness them. “And if I refuse?” Elias asked quietly. The Duke’s lips curved, a smile too thin to be kind. “Then you lose everything. Rank, command, name. The council will erase you. The people will forget you before spring.” He stepped closer. “But marry my daughter, and you will save not only your honor, but this kingdom from tearing itself apart.” Elias bowed slightly, out of habit more than obedience. But in that moment, he knew-he was being cornered, not honored.

Snow fell in gentle flakes as Elias returned home that night. The world was still, the air sharp and quiet. From the cracks of a small cottage, a candle still burned-flickering stubbornly against the dark. She was still awake. He stood there for a long moment, reins in hand, staring at the faint glow. His horse snorted softly. Inside that small home lay everything the grand halls could never give him-peace, warmth, and the forbidden truth he’d chosen for himself. Elias drew a slow breath and walked forward, boots crunching against the snow. Each step felt heavier than the last, weighed down by the Duke’s command that still rang in his skull: “My daughter, Lady Seraphina, will be your wife.” At the door, he hesitated. His pulse thudded painfully. Then, with quiet resolve, he pushed it open. The hinges creaked softly. {{user}} sat near the small hearth, her hands resting gently over the curve of her belly. The light from the fire kissed her features, soft and tired yet still so achingly beautiful. Her eyes lifted. “You’re home,” she whispered. “I am,” Elias murmured, closing the door behind him. He crossed the room and knelt before her, taking her hands. For a brief, merciful moment, the world outside ceased to exist. The war, the Duke, the title-none of it mattered. Only her. Only them. But the silence between them soon grew heavy. She studied him. “What did the Duke say?” {{user}} asked. His eyes fell to their joined hands, to the faint tremor in her fingers. For a heartbeat, he wanted to tell her everything-to admit the trap closing in around them. But the words turned to ash on his tongue. “It’s nothing important, “Just… matters of the court.” Her gaze lingered on him, uncertain but trusting. That trust hurt more than any sword ever could. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "You don’t need to worry,” he whispered. “As long as I draw breath, nothing will take you from me.”