The first snowfall of the season came early that year, drifting like pale ash over the capital as if the sky mourned something no one yet knew. The city's roofs, spires, and bridges vanished beneath the white veil, quieting the world. Only the War General cut through the stillness — a lone rider dressed in the deep-blue rayadillo uniform of the Empire, golden braids catching the weak light.
General Cassian Vale was the kind of man who belonged to winter.
Cold. Silent. Unyielding.
People said he had ice instead of blood, that he felt nothing, that he had carved a reputation out of brutality and victories no sane man could claim. They said he was incapable of tenderness.
They said many things.
Lady Seraphine Arden had never believed any of them.
Not when she saw him like this — alone beneath the falling snow, brushing frost from his gloves with the faintest breath of impatience, that small gesture he only ever made when he knew she was watching.
She stood at the balcony of Arden Manor, her cloak unfastened, the cold needling her skin. But she didn't step back inside. She waited.
The General always came in winter.
And always for her.
When he dismounted and strode through the courtyard, he did not knock. The servants knew better; they opened the door before he reached it. He crossed the entrance hall in firm, unhesitating steps until he reached the staircase.
His eyes lifted.
Those dark void eyes met hers.
Seraphine's breath caught. He looked exactly as he always did — severe black hair tied at the nape of his neck, shoulders broadened by the crisp rayadillo coat, saber at his side, expression unreadable. Only the faintest shift of his jaw betrayed that he was pleased.
He would never say it aloud.
But she saw it.
She always did.
He climbed the stairs without a word. When he reached her, he brushed past the folds of her cloak and let a gloved hand touch the edge of her sleeve — fleeting, hidden, forbidden.
That was his greeting.
"Seraphine," he said quietly.
Her name, in that voice, was enough to warm her entire chest. "You came early."
"Snow makes the roads difficult." His gaze dropped briefly to her hands, pale from the cold. "And I dislike being kept from you."
The admission was soft, almost careless, as though he had not offered her the deepest part of himself with it.
But she felt it.
She always felt it.
They walked down the corridor, their steps echoing in unison. The manor was quiet — it always was when he visited. Her family gave them space, pretending they didn't know. Everyone understood the nature of their bond, even if society never would.
Seraphine would have followed him anywhere. Into winter, into war, into ruin, if he asked.
She wondered if he knew that. She wondered if it frightened him.
He entered her sitting room first, shedding snow from his coat. Seraphine closed the door behind them and touched the hearth, coaxing the fire higher. The warm glow softened the austere lines of his face.
"Your journeys must have exhaust you," she murmured as she approached him.
Cassian watched her hands — delicate, trembling slightly — as she helped him peel off his gloves. Only when her fingers brushed his knuckles did his posture ease, the tension leaving his shoulders like ice melting.
"You worry too easily," he said.
"You pretend I have no reason to."
A faint breath left him — the closest he came to a chuckle.
She slid off the last glove and held it to her chest, savoring the warmth it still carried. "Stay for a while," she whispered.
He lifted a hand to her cheek, calloused fingers brushing her skin. "I always stay."
And in that moment, Seraphine believed him.
She always believed him.
Cassian lowered his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling. He did not kiss her — he rarely initiated it — but he let the closeness speak for him. She closed her eyes, leaning into him, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing as though it were a secret he allowed only her to hear.
"Tell me what happened," she said softly. "The front lines…"
"Later." His thumb traced her cheekbone. "When you're not looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I've returned from death itself."
Her lips curled. "Haven't you?"
"Perhaps." His voice dropped. "But only you bring me back."
Her heart trembled. He did not give her pretty words often. She cherished every one.
They settled by the fire. Cassian sat in the armchair beside her, though his eyes never left her face. He had a habit of memorizing her — as though convinced she might disappear if he looked away long enough.
"Your letters were shorter this season," she said. "I thought you were keeping something from me."
"I was."
Her breath stilled. But his voice remained level.
"A new campaign is being planned," he said. "One more brutal than the last. I didn't want to burden you with the details until I returned."
"Your burdens are mine," she whispered.
His gaze softened. "I know."
She reached across the small table and placed her hand on his. He didn't move. He let her touch him first, as always — but then his fingers curled around hers, firm, claiming, as though anchoring himself to her.
If anyone else had seen him like this, they would not have believed it.
The Empire's coldest General, holding a woman's hand as if it were the only warmth left in the world.
Her heart throbbed with something fierce and tremulous.
She dared to ask the question she had carried for months.
"When this campaign ends… will you finally tell the Emperor?"
His jaw tightened.
She waited.
Cassian had never promised her marriage — not openly, not in words. But he had given her everything else: his heart, his loyalty, his nights spent in secret, his rare confessions spoken only in shadow.
Marriage was the only thing still unspoken.
And the only thing she wanted.
He released her hand. Slowly.
"Seraphine," he said, voice low, unreadable. "There are matters at court you don't fully understand."
Her pulse quickened. "Then help me understand."
He looked at her — really looked — and something cold flickered behind his eyes, a winter wind slipping through a cracked door.
"I will handle it," he said.
That was all.
The answer chilled her, but she swallowed it. She trusted him. Loved him. Believed in a life with him more fiercely than she believed in her own breath.
She leaned closer, offering him a small smile. "You always do."
His expression softened again. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Seraphine…"
The way he said her name always sounded like a vow.
She wished she knew which one.
Night deepened outside, the snowfall thickening. Cassian stayed with her until the manor fell silent, until the fire dimmed to embers. He stood by her window, hands clasped behind him, staring at the frozen gardens below.
"You should sleep," he said without turning.
"Will you stay?" She asked.
He hesitated. That alone was unusual.
She rose and approached him, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm.
"Cassian?"
His breath trembled once — so faint she barely noticed. Then he looked down at her with a gentleness that undid her completely.
"Yes," he murmured. "I'll stay."
Her smile broke through like sunlight.
And when she rested her head against him, he let out a quiet exhale, lowering his cheek to her hair. For that night, at least, the world outside could not touch them.
He held her. She held him.
And in the fragile stillness of that winter room, Seraphine believed their future was already written — that love like theirs could not be denied, that the General's heart belonged only to her.
She did not know that this night — this gentle, unwavering closeness —
would be the last time she held him as her lover.