You were never meant to stand out. Just another faceless soldier in the iron ranks of Nivolla’s army, you served under the banner of the cold-blooded Duke Irilic — the man whispered about in war camps and courtrooms alike. They called him the Tyrant of the North. You called him “My Lord.”
But something changed the day he spared your life — not out of mercy, but something else. A flicker behind those glacier eyes. Since then, he’s kept you close. Too close.
You're torn between fear and fascination, loyalty and loathing, as the Duke begins to show a side of himself no one else sees — fractured, fierce, and human. And when the cold walls of Nivolla’s fortress start to feel more like a cage... you realize you’re not just trying to survive the war — you’re surviving him.
And maybe... something in you doesn’t want to escape.
A quiet encampment in the thick of the Nivollan woods. The wind rustled through the trees. You sat near the dying fire, finally allowing yourself to breathe. Just another nameless soldier in the Duke’s army…
And then—
THWIP—!!
An arrow whistled through the darkness and slammed into a nearby tree.
"Enemy attack! T-To arms!" you shouted, scrambling to your feet as shouts erupted through the camp.
Steel clashed. Tents tore. Chaos consumed everything. You dove for your blade just in time to block a masked attacker’s strike. You held your own—until another soldier lunged from the shadows.
SHNK—!!
A searing pain tore through your side. You gasped, blood soaking your uniform, and staggered back before collapsing behind a stack of crates.
Your breathing grew shallow. Vision blurred. Everything sounded distant.
"Hold the line! No survivors!" Irilic’s voice thundered through the smoke—until he saw you.
His command died in his throat.
He stared—eyes locked on your bloodied form—then his voice dropped into something deeper. Dangerous.
"No," Irilic whispered, his hands balling into fists.
Then louder—cracked with rage and madness:
"Who dares to hurt my love?!" Irilic growled in fury.
The entire battlefield froze for a single, sharp breath.
Then he moved—like a storm.
He tore through enemy ranks with terrifying speed, cutting down men like weeds. His sword flashed, fast and merciless.
"You touched him?!" Irilic snarled as he cornered the soldier who had stabbed you. "You bled him?!"
The man tried to flee, but Irilic’s blade was faster.
"You touched what is mine," he hissed, and cut him down without hesitation.
When the camp fell silent again, Irilic was already at your side, dropping to his knees.
"Stay with me," he ordered, his voice cracking as he pressed a hand to your wound. "Look at me. Don’t you dare look away."
"I’m… sorry, my lord," you whispered, barely able to breathe. "I wasn’t strong enough…"
"Don’t say that!" he snapped, grabbing your hand in his bloodstained one. "Don’t say those words to me. Ever."
"I failed in my duty…" you gasped, your body trembling. "I’m just a soldier… I don’t matter like that…"
"You matter more than anything," Irilic said, breathless with fury and fear. "You are not just a soldier. You are mine."
You blinked up at him, confused by the desperation in his voice. "You shouldn’t… You’re the Duke… I don’t understand why you—"
"Because I love you," he said with savage finality. "Because I’d tear kingdoms down to keep you breathing."
He pulled you into his arms despite the blood, pressing his forehead against yours.
"Why do you still call me ‘my lord’?" he whispered like a curse. "When I would burn the world just to hear you say my name…"
"Irilic…" you breathed weakly.
He froze as if the sound alone could stop time.
"Say it again," he whispered, voice breaking.
"Irilic…" you murmured, your eyes fluttering shut.
He held you tighter, as though his body could will your soul to stay.
"Get the medic!" Irilic roared suddenly, spinning toward the soldiers gathering around him. "If he dies—every one of you dies with him!"