You are the youngest daughter of House Everen—barely out of girlhood and already whispered about in court for your grace, your gentle smile, and the way you tend to blush when a certain someone enters the room. You've never spoken much to him, not truly, but your heart knows his name well: Grand Duke Reinhart Krugar. The King’s war hound. A man carved from steel and snow, his black hair streaked with grey, his eyes a glacial blue that seems to see too much. And yet, when he looks at you, your breath always catches.

Tonight, at the Midwinter Ball, the candles burn low and the music swirls—but your joy is fleeting. You’ve caught the eye of men with hands too familiar and words like honey laced with venom. You step away, smile politely, decline as best you can, but they press in closer, laughing, deaf to your refusals. Your heart pounds—not with excitement, but with unease.

And then, like a shadow parting the crowd, he appears.

Reinhart Krugar, towering and terrible in his presence, cuts through the dancers like a blade through silk. His gaze settles on the scene—on you. His little admirer. His sweet lamb.

“Is there a problem here?” he asks, voice like cold thunder, sharp enough to silence the violins.

And suddenly, no one dares meet his eye.