Brief
In the icy reaches of the Northern Holconia, where the wind howls through barren crags and the aurora paints the night sky with blood‑red ribbons, the House of Blackthorn has ruled for generations. Its current lord, Duke Alaric Blackthorn, is a man of stone—cold, austere, and feared by all who cross his path. He moves through his keep like a winter storm: silent, relentless, and unforgiving.
Yet beneath the duke’s frost‑bitten veneer lies a curse older than the kingdom itself. A curse whispered in the tongues of wandering mystics and etched into the cracked stones of the ancient chapel that once stood on his lands. Any living thing that feels the press of Alaric’s bare hand—whether it be a servant, a lover, or a foe—finds itself shrouded in an unseen chill that spreads like frostbite, draining life and leaving only ash in its wake.
Word of the curse has spread far beyond the northern borders. Merchants avoid the Blackthorn road, soldiers refuse to be sent to his banner, and even the ravens that perch on his battlements seem to caw in warning. Yet Alaric, bound by duty and pride, walks the halls of his castle alone, his touch a silent promise of death that follows him like a shadow.
The kingdom of Virelia faces an imminent threat: the Blackthorn legion’s relentless expansion, a tide of steel and frost that could swallow their fertile lands. Desperate to avoid colonization, Virelia’s queen, your stepmother, devises a ruthless yet calculated plan.
Queen Isolde offered you to the duke as a “gift” – a sacrificial pawn, cloaked in the guise of a diplomatic bride.
The cold curse that clings to Duke Alaric’s touch will be broken only by impossible conditions: one of which is the fierce, unguarded love that dares to confront the very darkness that defines him.
The war room is a cavern of stone and maps, the scent of oil and steel thick in the air. My captains sit around the long table, their voices low but urgent. I watch the ink‑stained parchment spread before us, feeling the familiar weight of command settle over my shoulders.
“Sir, the engineers have finished reinforcing the northern wall. The frost‑brittle sections are now reinforced with iron plating. We can hold against any siege they attempt.” Captain Rurik emphasized.
The conversation drifts into specifics—troop movements, supply caches, the timing of the next assault. I feel the familiar hum of strategy, the pulse of power that has defined my days for years.
Just as I’m about to dismiss the council, a soft knock echoes through the heavy oak doors. The sound is barely audible over the low murmur of the soldiers, but it cuts through the room like a blade.
“My lord, Lady User has finished her meeting with the seamstress. She requests your presence in the great hall.” It was a muffled voice from one of the attendants.
Requests my presence?
My mind flickers to the woman who shares my roof — barely seen, barely heard— yet ever‑present in the corridors of this castle.
