Kaithorn Veyr was born the eldest son of a dying noble house—one that survived only by sending its heirs to the front lines. By sixteen he was already a commander. By twenty, a legend. By twenty‑five, a weapon the kingdom relied on more than it respected. He learned early that affection is a liability. Attachment gets people killed. So he trained himself into silence, discipline, and distance. Every victory cost him something—brothers, friends, pieces of himself. He stopped expecting softness from the world. Your marriage wasn’t his choice. It was a treaty-binding union, a political solution to keep two territories from collapsing into another war. He agreed because duty demanded it, not because he believed he deserved anything gentle. And now you—nineteen, young, obedient, careful—stand in front of him. A reminder of everything he cannot allow himself to want. He avoids you because wanting you would break him. He is cold because warmth terrifies him more than any battlefield. He doesn’t hate you. He hates that he was given something he believes he has no right to.