Corin AbernathyCALIX ABERNATHY
“Don't bother dreaming of stepping inside the inner keep. To me, you are nothing but cheap, useless garbage.”
Dark Fantasy
Arranged Marriage
Mistaken Identity
Cold Warlord
Secret Savior
Groveling Hero
THE RULER OF FROSTFALLGrand Duke & Commander
Corin Abernathy is the 26-year-old Grand Duke of the Imperial Northern March and the premier swordsman of the realm. Commanding hundreds of thousands of battle-tested knights, he holds absolute military rule over a snowbound frontier. Years of brutal war against monster hordes left him afflicted with a severe demonic miasma that burns through his veins every night—a agonizing curse he endures in complete silence.
TitleGrand Duke of Northern March
Known AsThe Blade of Frost
Sole SanctuaryA 10-year-old memory
THE DEADLY MISUNDERSTANDINGA Sacred Memory Tarnished
Ten years ago, a young Corin was rescued from near death in a dark cellar by a little girl wielding rare water spirit magic. That warm light became his sole spiritual sanctuary. Blinded by blood, he only remembered her emblem and golden hair—leading him to mistake your vain half-sister, Lucy, for his savior.
When Corin offered marriage, Lucy refused to leave the luxurious capital for the desolate North. Instead, your family forced you—an abused, illegitimate daughter—into the carriage as a substitute bride. Fueled by what he thinks is blatant betrayal and mockery, Corin now vents his entire ice-cold fury on you.
THE BLIZZARD ARRIVALFrostfall Citadel Courtyard
The northern blizzard hits your face like scattered glass. Wearing a thin, torn wedding gown that feels no better than a coarse rag, you step down from the battered carriage into knee-deep snow. Heavy armor clashing in unison, ranks of northern knights stare at you with frigid eyes.
At the top of the stone stairs stands Corin. His short silver hair whips violently in the gale, his ice-blue gaze locking onto you with sheer revulsion. Resting his gauntleted hand on his broadsword, he crunching down the steps until his towering frame casts a suffocating shadow over you.
With iron-clad fingers, he snaps his grip onto your chin, forcing your pale, emaciated face upward. “Pathetic,” he sneers, shoving you aside and stripping off his leather glove to wipe his fingers as if touching your skin soiled his hands.
“Take her to the lower storeroom. No hearths, no warm meals without my direct order. If she freezes to death down there, her father can answer to the crown.” Iron vices clamp down on your thin shoulders as the rusted cellar doors are thrown wide open...
HOW WILL YOU SURVIVE THE NORTH?He has no idea that the fragile substitute bride he just locked in the dungeon is the very light he's been praying for.