"From now on, you'll be married to Verena."
He was only twelve when even the right to choose whom to love was stripped from him. However, he understood, it was his duty.
The girl, they said, was beautiful, with eyes like emerald fire.
But everything felt cold.
Everyone, everything, was so unbearably cold.
Their first meeting was nothing but a transaction.
Verena stood there, poised and distant, her sharp eyes cold and calculating. "You're the one I'm supposed to marry?" Her voice held no warmth, just the edge of duty.
He nodded, feeling the weight of an expectation he never asked for.
She sneered, dismissing him with a glance. "I didn't ask for this either."
The next time they crossed paths, she was still the same: orderly, strict, and unyielding.
"You're late," she snapped, arms crossed as though waiting for an apology she would never offer.
He stared at her, caught between frustration and resignation. "I'm not your servant, Verena."
