The war council had dispersed, leaving a silence that was heavier than the castle stones. The grand strategy was set, the lords dispatched to play their parts in the deception. But in the echoing stillness of the strategy room, the true battle felt infinitely more personal.
Lysander stood before the cold hearth, his posture not that of a general, but of a man bearing an unimaginable weight. The mask of the Cold Duke had slipped, revealing the raw exhaustion beneath. The bandage on his arm was a stark white accusation against the dark leather of his coat.
He didn't speak of Uruks or ancient frostfiends. He spoke of a simpler, more terrifying enemy.
"It's a rot, Elara," he said, his voice a low, rough thing that scraped against the silence. "Not in the blood. In here." He tapped his temple, then pressed a fist against his chest. "And here. A coldness that has nothing to do with the wind. It tells me... things. That it's easier to let go. That feeling nothing is better than feeling the strain. That everyone is a threat to be neutralized."
He finally turned to look at me, and the vulnerability in his storm-grey eyes was more devastating than any monster. "Including you."
This was the true curse. Not magical veins or silver eyes, but a relentless, psychological erosion. A depression given sentience, whispering lies into the soul of the strongest man I knew.
I crossed the room, not as a strategist, but as the one person he had allowed to see the crack in his armor. I didn't touch him. I simply stood before him, forcing him to see me.
"And what does it tell you about me right now?" I asked, my voice soft.
His gaze traced my face, the intensity of it a physical touch. "It tells me you are a complication I cannot afford. A variable that makes the calculations messy. That the safest path is to lock you away where you cannot threaten the precarious balance I maintain every second of every day."
The clinical part of my mind recognized the symptoms: isolation, emotional numbing, self-sabotage. The human part of me ached for him.
"And what do you tell it?" I whispered.
He was silent for a long moment, the internal war playing out across his features. "I tell it," he said, the words dragged from a deep, guarded place, "that your mess is the only thing in this frozen hell that feels... warm."
It was the barest admission. The smallest defiance against the darkness within him. But it was everything.
I reached out then, slowly, giving him every chance to pull away. My fingers brushed against the bandage on his arm, over the wound I had cleaned and stitched. A healer's touch.
"I'm not here to be safe, Lysander," I said, my thumb gently strozing the linen wrap. "I'm here to be your ally. Your anchor. When the current tries to pull you under, you don't cut the rope. You hold on tighter."
His hand came up, his fingers closing around my wrist. But it wasn't to push me away. His grip was firm, almost desperate, as if he was anchoring himself to my pulse.
"I am not a good man, Elara," he warned, his voice thick. "The things I have done to keep this land safe... the things I am capable of... the cold doesn't just whisper. It sometimes wins."
"Then let me be the warmth that reminds you how to come back," I said, holding his gaze, pouring every ounce of my conviction into the words.
He shuddered, a full-body tremor that seemed to surprise him. The distance between us evaporated. He was close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, see the faint scar bisecting his eyebrow, the dark fringe of his lashes.
His free hand came up to cup my cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle. His thumb stroked my cheekbone, a slow, wondering motion.
"You see the battlefield no one else can," he murmured, his breath a warm cloud against my lips. "You give a name to the formless enemy inside me."
I leaned into his touch, my heart hammering against my ribs. "And you are not just your scars, Lysander. Or your strength. You are the man who fights for his people. The man who trusted me with his truth."
His eyes searched mine, the storm in them calming into something deeper, more profound. The Head of Household and the General were gone. It was just a man and a woman, surrounded by maps of imaginary battles, fighting the only war that truly mattered.
He didn't kiss me.
He rested his forehead against mine, a gesture of breathtaking intimacy that was more powerful than any passion. We stood there, in the silent, candlelit room, breathing the same air. His eyes were closed, his long fingers still framing my face, as if he was drawing strength from the simple, solid fact of my presence.
"The journey north will be arduous," he said, his voice a low vibration between us.
"I know."
"The environment will be a weapon."
"I'm counting on it."
He pulled back just enough to look at me, a new, fierce light in his eyes. "Then we go. Not as Duke and Duchess. Not as General and Strategist." He took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine in a promise that felt more binding than any vow spoken before an altar. "We go as us."
The strategy was set. The enemies—both external and the one within—were named. But the objective had changed. It was no longer about winning a war or securing a border.
It was about one man learning to trust the warmth enough to let it thaw the frozen parts of his soul. And it was about one woman proving that her greatest weapon wasn't her knowledge of the future, but her faith in the damaged, magnificent man standing before her, finally choosing to hold on instead of push away.