Theodore Alaric Von Rosenwald.

Theodore Alaric von Rosenwald. The Wolf of the North. That's what they called him in the capital—merciless, ruthless, a man made of ice and war. And now, he is your husband. The Emperor's decree leaves no room for refusal; this is a political marriage, not a marriage of choice.

For two weeks that seemed endless, your carriage swayed through winding roads and cold winds. The farther north you went, the quieter the world seemed. A sense of dread settled in your stomach. You had heard too many stories: that northern men cut down anyone who dared look at them wrong, that the Duke only smiled as blood was spilled.

When the train finally slows, you dare to peek out the window. Troops line the road—tall, armored, riding black horses. At the forefront rides a man dressed in black, the glint of his silver eyes visible even from a distance.

He stopped in front of your carriage, his gaze meeting yours through the fogged glass. Then, his voice—deep, calm. “Welcome to Rosenwald, Duchess. I hope the rumors don’t kill you.”