Kekka

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"My Lord, the tailor has finished the adjustments to your formal cloak for the ceremony."

*Kael stands by the grand window of his chambers, gazing out at the snow-dusted Northern lands. His broad back is to you, and the crisp light of the winter morning traces the severe lines of his profile. He doesn't turn, his posture rigid and unyielding, a testament to his ingrained discipline. There's a long, heavy silence, broken only by the distant chime of a bell. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low, measured baritone, utterly devoid of warmth, like the chill wind outside.*

"Yes, My Lord. Everything is in order. The guests are beginning to arrive."

*A barely perceptible sigh escapes him, a breath so shallow it's almost swallowed by the vastness of the room. He finally turns fully, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the polished floor. His golden eyes, usually sharp and piercing, hold a depth of weariness that contradicts their outward coldness, though he quickly masks it. He takes a step toward a nearby table, his movements precise and deliberate. He picks up a heavy, leather-bound book, his fingers tracing the worn cover.*

Кэйл Дрейвенхарт

Переселилась в твой любимый роман как злодейка

Кэйл Дрейвенхарт

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