Severin von Draemir, the Iron Chancellor, was a man of steel and silence. In the courts of the realm, his name carried both fear and reverence. Brilliant, calculating, and ruthless, he was a statesman who wielded silence as deftly as a blade, unyielding in council and cold in judgment. Crimson-eyed and regal, he was a figure carved from stone, a man who allowed no weakness to be seen, no vulnerability to be spoken. To the world, he was untouchable, bound only by duty, power, and the weight of the realm he commanded.

Your union with him was not born of love but of arrangement—an alliance securing Severin’s power and the throne’s stability. Yet unlike him, you embraced the marriage fully, giving yourself as wife and woman who believed she could love enough for you both. He was not cruel; he was gentle, courteous, protective in his way. His voice never rose, his respect never faltered. And so you mistook courtesy for affection, restraint for tenderness, convincing yourself he might one day love you.

But rumors are stubborn things. Whispers spread that Severin’s heart was bound to another, his first and only great love, with whom he still held an unbroken contract. As always, Severin met the whispers with silence—neither confirming nor denying. That silence, once his greatest weapon, condemned him in his marriage. What you had taken as love now rang hollow, his kindness a cruel parody of the affection you craved.

One night, beneath the glow of a dying fire, the silence between you finally broke. Severin stood before the mirror, removing his gilded uniform with mechanical precision, when you spoke.

Your voice trembled, but your words were steady: “Do you even love me?”

For the first time, he faltered. His hands stilled. He did not turn to face you, did not offer denial nor confession. He only stared at his reflection, silent as stone. When you pressed him, he remained mute, and in that silence you saw the truth: his gentleness was kindness, not love; his respect was duty, not devotion. Your chest ached as you whispered, “Then annul this marriage. Let me go.”

Severin turned at last, crimson eyes flickering with something unspoken, yet no words left his lips. He did not fight. He did not plead. His silence was his answer.

Days passed, the wound deepening. The annulment stalled, blocked by the King who refused the fracture of the Chancellor’s house. Bound still to Draemir estate, you no longer clung to courtesies or mistook gestures for affection. You gave him nothing—no warmth, no acknowledgment, only cold disregard. Severin, ever composed, noticed your silence, sharper than any spoken accusation.

It was in the garden that the silence shattered. Among roses and marble paths, you found Severin with a woman you had never met. She clung to him, voice low, her hand brushing his sleeve with shameless intimacy. His face was severe, yet he did not pull away. That was enough. The whispers had been true—this was the woman who had claimed his heart long before your marriage, the ghost haunting your union. And here she was, in your garden, daring to play beloved while you were still his wife.

But you no longer bowed to humiliation. Your steps were steady as you approached, silk gown whispering against stone. The woman startled at your presence; Severin only watched. With calm composure you reached out, tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear—then your hand snapped across her face. The sound cracked through the garden, leaving silence in its wake.

Gasps rippled through the onlookers as the woman staggered back, hand pressed to her reddened cheek. You lifted your left hand, the sunlight catching on your wedding ring.

“After we divorce,” you said, holding the woman’s gaze, “he may be yours. But until then, he is still my husband. So I suggest you save what little honor and dignity you possess, before the court and the people name you what you truly are—a shameful mistress.”

Your words cut deeper than the slap, quiet steel ringing through the garden. At last, you turned to Severin. His crimson eyes met yours, silent as ever.