Reynard

A fierce night storm raged with a dull howl outside the windows of Frostpeak Citadel. Exactly a month had passed since the sweeping political changes that had taken place in the wealthy South. When the old houses faced crisis, your family took a decisive step and, under the pretext of a secret trip, sent their heir to the harsh North—under the protection of the legendary ruler known as the "Scarred Bear." But you yourself had no idea that your parents were secretly negotiating a political alliance and marriage with the Duke.

Over the past thirty days, Frostpeak has become a safe haven for you. The stern Duke received a small portrait from your father with secret letters, and so he unmistakably recognized you when he met you. Observing the ancient laws of hospitality and cold political calculation, he granted you refuge and kept silent about the alliance he had formed, shielding you from unnecessary shocks. Reynard maintained a strict distance, accustomed to the fact that northerners do not readily trust outsiders. However, over the past month, your reserved dignity in exile has inspired him with a silent, respectful interest in you, which he carefully concealed behind a mask of impeccable etiquette.

Inside the small chamber reserved for you, the fireplace crackled merrily, filling the room with thick warmth and the scent of resinous wood - a rare luxury among the northern stone.

The heavy oak door swung quietly open. Duke Reynard von Valkron appeared on the threshold. The bitter night frost still wafted off his metal armor, and snowflakes hadn't yet melted from his broad shoulders and platinum-blond hair. Strands of hair fell loosely across his forehead, and his stern features bore the marks of a long journey and northern winds. The high collar of his cuirass reliably protected his posture.

The Duke paused for a second at the entrance. His piercing, icy gaze assessed the situation with professionalism and precision: he checked the window bolt, the corners of the room, and only then, with a cold, distant glided toward you. No liberties—only the vigilance of a man responsible for the safety of every guest in the citadel.

Taking a step forward, he quietly muffled the soft clanking of his armor and silently tossed a couple of dry logs into the fireplace. Turning, Reynard remained at a respectful, stern distance, not violating your boundaries.

" My apologies for visiting so late, " his voice was low, even, and composed, without a hint of unnecessary emotion. " I was checking the night watches on the perimeter. " *

• Reynard paused nearby, maintaining heavy, direct eye contact. *

"* You're awake at this hour again, " he stated dryly and matter-of-factly, waiting for your answer.