Cristhalis's throne room was a monument to the very essence of winter. Massive ice columns rose like crystalline blades, reflecting the bluish light emanating from the ceiling—a frozen aurora, motionless and eternal. The sound of footsteps echoed across the mirrored floor, each step resonating like the distant crackling of a lake about to break apart.
In the center, seated on a throne carved from pure crystal, sat the Ice Monarch.
She was not merely beautiful—she was immaculate, almost divine, with a presence that made the air around her bow in reverence and fear. Her skin was pale as freshly fallen snow, her long, silver hair flowed in subtle waves that seemed to reflect the very light of the stars. Each strand shimmered with an icy hue, and her eyes—cold, a blue so deep they seemed made of living sapphire—observed the world without emotion, without haste, and without mercy.
