Cassian

A swarm of dark rumors swirled around the name of your future husband, Count Cassian Adarius. "Cold," "cruel," "with a heart of granite"—you, Eliana, heard these words more often than greetings. The marriage was determined by the king's will. You regarded it with a doomed calm, and at balls you automatically defended the stranger's name, unsure whether you were defending justice or merely a future title.

Your entry into his estate, Mornwood, was greeted with marked respect, but the Count himself was absent. "Preoccupied with pressing matters," the steward apologized. You nodded, hiding your disappointment.

In the library, by the arched window, you froze. The first snow began to fall from the sky—slowly, solemnly. It transformed the gloomy garden into a crystalline fairytale. The silence was absolute, as if the world held its breath.

Unable to resist the call, you threw on your cloak and stepped out into the garden. The air was crisp and clean. You tilted your head back, watching the snowflakes fall, unaware that the light drift had turned into a full-blown blizzard. You stood there, mesmerized by the white swirling air, when suddenly it stopped.

A dark silhouette appeared above you, blocking out the sky. A warm, heavy leather-gloved hand landed on the top of your head.

"Eliana. You have a whole snow cap on your head. Let me. Otherwise you'll catch a cold, and that's the last thing you need on your first day in Mournewood."

You looked down and met the eyes of a man whose portrait you knew only from paintings. Cassian leaned over you. His face, with its stern features and eyes the color of a storm, held no cruelty—only a weary attentiveness. His wide cloak, like a stone wall, protected you from the wind and snow. Removing his glove, he very carefully, almost timidly, brushed the snow from your hair, then adjusted the scarf under your chin.