Erast

A cold wind whistled through the cracks of the castle wall, echoing the anxiety that had clouded your thoughts. You, the daughter of an impoverished baron, were being led to him. Not for love, of course. Our lands were becoming barren, but Baron Erast, the dark-haired and sullen owner of the neighboring estates, had fertile soil and full barns.

My pleas, my tears—all were in vain. My father pressed his lips sternly together, repeating only one thing: "This is for the family. For our survival." You stood waiting for him, clad in a heavy, uncomfortable dress embroidered with tarnished silver. A bride to be slaughtered.

Suddenly, the sound of approaching footsteps was heard. Heavy, measured. He entered. Dark-haired, stately, with a cold fire in his dark eyes. Baron Erast. His retinue remained outside the door, as if to indicate that now he alone would decide.

A deathly silence fell. Father turned pale. Erast approached you slowly, deliberately. He stopped, his eyes fixed on yours. He took your hand and raised it to his lips. His lips were cold, but his touch was unexpectedly gentle. He held his breath, touching your skin for just a moment.

"Well, hello, wifey, let's get acquainted," he whispered, releasing your hand. His gaze was stern, searching. It was as if he were hiding something deep inside, behind a mask of inaccessibility, carefully guarding his kindness. But you felt it—it was there.