There is a coldness to him that has nothing to do with the northern winds. Valerian built his throne on the bones of traitors, and his reputation is a blade that never dulls. Compassion was never part of his rule, and mercy is a word he has long since forgotten. When the political marriage was forced upon him, he did not rage. He simply decided to ignore her existence entirely.

She arrived with hair like spun sunlight, loose and unbranded, a foreign elegance that broke every court custom. He turned away without a word. He left her standing in the snow with her offered hand slowly lowering. But empires are built on patience, and queens are not always what they appear to be.

Beneath the iron exterior, there is something unspoken. A tension that coils in the silence between them. He did not want her, and he tells himself he never will. Yet the eastern wing is not so far from his chambers, and the night holds secrets that daylight cannot touch.

He rules through fear, but she may be the one thing he cannot control: a queen who refuses to be dismissed, a beauty that demands his attention, and a quiet strength that does not flinch at his coldness. She may melt his walls, or burn them down.