[Alvar’s POV — Regulffsson Mansion—A Week Before]

The familiar crunch of gravel echoed under my boots as I dismounted, handing the reins to a waiting stablehand.

The butler and servants lined up in practiced precision, bowing deeply.

"Welcome back, Grand Duke Alvar."

I gave a curt nod, my expression unreadable as ever.

But in the center of them all, standing with her hands folded neatly, staring at me without even blinking, was Lady Selene Regulffsson —my mother.

Cold. Imposing. A woman who could cut a man down with a glance. I stepped forward, my voice even and cool. "How are you, Mother?"

Her eyes narrowed, sweeping over me as if inspecting a soldier for flaws.

And then—

FWIP! FWIP!

Her head darted side to side, her gaze raking the air around me. My brow twitched. "...What are you doing?"

Her voice came like ice breaking across a lake. "Looking."

"...For what, exactly?"

" A bride. "

Silence.

A long, suffocating silence. Even the butler froze, blinking rapidly as though he’d misheard.

Finally, I exhaled through my nose. "Why... would I bring a bride? I went to Frojnholm for work, Mother. Not... for bride hunting."

She straightened her back, folding her arms with regal disdain. "And yet you lingered there for months. Months. And returned with nothing but ink-stained fingers and more papers. Not even a whisper of marriage."

My jaw clenched. "...Yes."

Her tone was cold and cutting, but the insult was delivered with surgical precision. "Pathetically. Single, Son."

The butler nearly choked on his own tongue, and one of the servants bit their lip hard enough to keep from laughing.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "... What kind of curse is this, to have one’s own mother treat her son’s unmarried status as a national crisis?"

She turned on her heel, her gown swishing like a blade drawn from its sheath. "Come inside, Alvar. I shall feed you. Even though you don’t bring me a daughter-in-law... I suppose I must still keep you in my shade."

I blinked once, slowly. "...Ah. Yes. Thank you for that."

My lips pressed into a thin line. Cold against cold. But, as always, she had the last word.

The marble halls swallowed us as I followed her in. The sound of her heels struck like tiny war drums, each click echoing her disapproval of my continued existence as a bachelor.

I should have been immune to it by now. I should have. And yet—beneath the polished calm of my expression, beneath the iron restraint—I could feel it.

A quiet ache.

A name was forming on my tongue before I bit it back.

Leif.

My boy. My warmth in that frozen territory. The one reckless enough to laugh at me, stubborn enough to argue with me, and bright enough to make even the bleak north seem alive.

I miss him.

***

[Dining Chamber—Later]

The dining chamber was suffocatingly quiet, the kind of silence that gnawed at your bones. I cut my steak with perfect precision, each slice too elegant, too measured.

Once, I would not have minded. Silence had always been my shield. But after Frojnholm—after him —I found the quiet... unbearable.

The butler stepped in, bowing low. "My lord... a letter has arrived."

I dabbed my mouth with a napkin and extended my hand. He placed the envelope into it, and I already knew.

Elowen.

Of course. She had discovered my return to the capital without a whisper from me. I had informed no one outside this estate. Suspicious—predictable.

I set the letter down beside my plate, intending to burn it later.

And then—

"Who is Elowen?"

My mother’s head appeared beside me, sudden as a hawk swooping down on prey.

I did not even flinch. I was far too used to her stealth. "Just a woman," I replied flatly.

"Yes," she said with equal flatness, stabbing her fork into her steak. "I can see that."

I ignored her, but she persisted, slicing her food with surgical neatness. "So... who is she exactly ? Which house does she belong to? Our city? A neighboring city? When did you—"

"Mother." My voice cut like winter steel.

"Yes?"

"She is not someone I would take as bride. Stop interrogating me."

She blinked at me. Once. Twice. Then scoffed, "Of course."

Finally—silence again. At least until her next ambush.

"I suppose," she said a moment later, tone casual, knife gliding through meat, "the rumors were true."

I stilled. "...What rumors?"

She did not even hesitate. "That you’re impotent."

. . .

. . .

Clang!

. . .

. . .

My fork clattered onto the plate. My body stiffened, trembling from the sheer audacity. "W-what?!"

She chewed slowly, unbothered. "Mm. The sauce is delightful. A fine balance of herbs." Her gaze flicked to me, flat and cold as ever. "Yes. Impotent. It explains everything."

My jaw tightened. "Who... who dares spread such baseless humiliation—"

"Your actions."

My head snapped toward her. "...What?"

She set down her knife delicately, then looked me straight in the eye with all the mercy of a glacier. "You’ve rejected every eligible woman in the city. Naturally, the conclusion is that you cannot."

A vein in my temple throbbed. I pressed my fingers against it, muttering through gritted teeth, "I should find the bastard who spread that filth—and have sex with my love in front of them, just to silence their tongues."

My mother’s fork paused midair. Her expression—still flat—shifted almost imperceptibly. "...That is shameless."

"Perhaps."

"And your so-called love will slap you across the face—" She stopped mid-sentence, froze, and then leaned forward ever so slightly.

Her eyes widened. Coldness cracked, just for a heartbeat, replaced with curiosity... no, with sparkles .

"...Wait. Did you say... love?"

I blinked. "What?"

She rose from her seat, chair scraping loudly against marble. Her face—always so immovable—was suddenly alive with intensity.

"You. You. You have someone you love?!"

I shifted uncomfortably, the edges of my composure fraying under her stare. "...Mother."

Her voice dropped, low and deadly serious, though her eyes gleamed like a hawk spotting prey. "Answer me, Alvar."

I stiffened, regretting instantly that I had let the word love slip from my mouth.

This was not how I wanted her to find out. Not like this.

Her eyes narrowed, sharp as a hawk’s. "Tell me. Do you have someone you love?"

I hesitated. My lips parted, and to my own horror, I heard myself say, "...Yes."

Silence.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Then—

"MARY!!!"

The lady-in-waiting came skidding into the chamber like a soldier summoned to battle. "Yes, my lady!"

"Find the finest bridal boutiques in the capital! The best silks, the grandest lace. I shall begin preparing for the wedding immediately!"

"Mother—wait—"

But she was already halfway out the door, muttering under her breath like a general planning an invasion. "Gosh... seating arrangements, dowry, invitations, flowers—so much to do, so little time—"

"Mother—" I stood, reaching out, but her figure vanished down the hall, her voice echoing off the marble.

I sat back down slowly, burying my face in one hand.

Now... how exactly should I tell her that she should be looking in a groom’s boutique, not a bridal one? How should I tell her... that the person I love is a man?

I sighed, stabbing my steak with unnecessary violence. The meat didn’t deserve this, but my dignity was already dead.