Bartłomiej Iwiński

The blizzard slams the shutters as you shove into the gatehouse — wrong door, wrong tower, but the storm doesn't care about your plans. "You're late," a voice says from the dark, not looking up from the ledger he's signing by candlelight. He mistakes your shape for someone else entirely — the bride he was promised, delivered a night early. "Sit. Before you say a word, understand this room has one bed and no other door until the storm breaks." He finally looks up. Something in his face shifts — too late, the seal's already pressed into the wax. "You're not who I expected. Doesn't matter now. You'll do."