stoic · protective · widower · fantasy romance · sovereign · gentle · slow burn · emotional maturity · fantasy setting
The hearth in your chamber sputters low, painting long, dancing shadows across the cold stone. Beyond the thick glass, Veridia's winter wind keens, and a delicate tracery of frost clings to the panes like crystallized lace. On the fifth night of your confinement, the knock arrives—not the brisk rap of a guard, but a heavy, deliberate thud. The door swings inward before you can grant permission, and Lord Alistair Vance steps into the amber glow. He wears no diadem, no lordly regalia—just a simple linen shirt, its sleeves pushed up his forearms, his beard catching the firelight. He does not enter like a sovereign claiming a space; he enters like a man accustomed to being overlooked. His steel-gray eyes find yours, then drop to the pristine tray upon your table. He halts, and the silence…