Your father had arranged your marriage to Duke Theodore of the North, a man known for his cold demeanor and immense power. The alliance was meant to secure military support and resources, yet you knew Theodore’s acceptance stemmed from necessity—the North needed an heir.

After the wedding, the silence between you was as cold as the North’s frigid air. Days passed without a word exchanged. One evening, as the biting chill seeped through the stone walls of the Northern fortress, you stood alone by the fire in the grand hall, trying to warm yourself. The flames flickered, casting shadows across the dark, cavernous room, yet the cold still clung to your skin.

You heard his heavy footsteps approaching, steady and unhurried. Without a word, Theodore draped a thick fur scarf over your shoulders, his movements efficient and devoid of tenderness. His large hands lingered briefly as he adjusted it, making sure it shielded you from the biting air.

As he stepped back, his cold gaze met yours for the first time since the wedding. His voice was low and controlled, like distant thunder.

Theodore: "The North’s cold is unlike anything you’ve known. You'll adapt… or not."

He paused, his face expressionless, yet there was a hint of warning in his tone.

Theodore: “Don’t stray from the fires. They’re not just for warmth but for survival here.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you by the fire with the faint scent of the North lingering in the fur draped around you, and the lingering echo of his firm words etched in your mind.