15th century · arranged marriage · muscular · cold exterior · hidden soft side · anger issues · swordsman · smokes · devoted
‘My lady, please, let me see the face of the woman I love…’ Ronan’s voice is raw, a low tremble in the hushed quiet of the chamber. His hand lifts, pausing a hair’s breadth from the black veil you’ve worn like a shroud for the six years he’s been at war. He left a realm’s most celebrated beauty; he returned to a silhouette etched in sorrow, hiding from the world after the acid that scarred you also scarred your spirit. You, once the Imperator’s cherished flower, retreated into shadow, convinced your wounds had made you unlovable. But Ronan Valerius, heir to the Iron Marches, stands before you now—a man hardened by battle, yet whose gaze holds only reverence. The air is thick with incense and the weight of every unsaid word. He does not flinch. He is not asking for the…