The first thing Arlo became aware of was silence.
A heavy, almost suffocating silence that pressed against his ears as though the world itself had been smothered in snow.
For a long moment, he lay still, his mind sluggish, floating somewhere between dream and reality.
His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and his body felt… wrong.
Not painful, not broken, but foreign, as though he was wearing someone else's skin.
He blinked his eyes open.
The ceiling above him was familiar — carved stone with faint veins of blue frost running through it.
His chamber. The same room The Queen had ordered for him yesterday.
But something about it felt different.
It took him several seconds to realize what.
The ceiling looked a little closer.
The difference was so small if you didn't look closely or have a sharp mind you wouldn't notice.
He frowned, his mind still fogged.
Had the room shrunk overnight? No, that was ridiculous.
But the thought lodged stubbornly in his head as he slowly pushed himself upright.
His body responded oddly — faster, smoother, with a strength he didn't remember possessing.
Muscles shifted beneath his skin with fluid ease, and for a terrifying heartbeat he thought he wasn't in his own body at all.
Then out of nowhere, memories slammed into him.
The unground chamber, the ceremonial circle, the queen's human form leading him into the underground depths.
Her mocking smile, her casual declaration that no one believed she would go through with this marriage.
And then—her transformation.
Charlotte.
Her name had slipped past his lips yesterday when she corrected him, insisting he call her that.
And now, remembering the sight of her massive dragon form unfolding before him, his stomach clenched with fear and awe all over again.
The radiant scales, the unearthly chill that poured off her like a blizzard, and then—
The fire.
If one could even call it fire.
A torrent of searing blue flames that looked like liquid ice, engulfing him, invading him.
The memory alone made his skin crawl. He remembered the cold at first, deceptive in its stillness.
Then the agony—blinding, merciless agony—as though his skin was peeling from his bones and molten frost was being poured into his veins.
His hands shook as he touched his bare chest.
He had screamed, he remembered that too.
The sound of his own voice ripping raw as Charlotte's flames consumed him.
He had begged, clawed at his own flesh, but the fire hadn't stopped.
It had burrowed deeper, forcing its way past muscle, past bone, past the very limits of what he thought a body could endure.
Until his consciousness had finally fractured under the weight of it and darkness claimed him.
Now he was here, awake, alive.
But not quite feeling the same.
Arlo swung his legs off the bed and stood.
Immediately, the room seemed… smaller.
His perspective had shifted.
He glanced at the tall bronze candelabra in the corner — one he distinctly remembered needing to crane his neck to look at before. Now? Its height barely reached his chest.
"…what the hell," he muttered, voice rough from disuse.
He rubbed his temples, convinced it was some lingering hallucination from the pain, but when he approached the candelabra, his suspicion was confirmed.
He really was taller. Noticeably taller.
His body cast a longer shadow than before, and when he stretched out his arms, his limbs seemed alien in proportion, broader, heavier, yet strangely graceful.
Dizziness washed over him and he staggered, catching himself against the side of the bed.
Or rather—what used to be the bed.
The frame snapped beneath his grip with a sharp crack.
A thick wooden beam, carved from timber so dense it had been reinforced to withstand cold climates, splintered like fragile glass under the mere pressure of his palm.
Arlo froze.
He looked down at the broken piece of wood in his hand, stunned by how absurdly light it felt.
His brain screamed at him that this wasn't possible.
That his hands — his fragile, human hands — couldn't just crush furniture built to outlast decades.
But his senses told him otherwise.
The weight was real. The splintered edges digging into his palm were real. And the raw power humming beneath his skin was very, very real.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
With shaking hands, he set the wood down and staggered toward the tall mirror propped against the far wall.
His feet carried him with unnerving speed, the ground almost blurring beneath each step.
He nearly stumbled from the unnatural momentum before stopping short in front of the glass.
He had braced himself, he had known at the back of his mind he would see something different.
But nothing could have prepared him for the reflection that stared back at him.
The man in the mirror wasn't the Arlo who had stumbled into this world, scrawny and pitiful, his body lacking muscle, his face forgettable in a crowd.
This man looked carved from marble, sculpted by gods with cruel precision.
His shoulders were broader, his torso lean yet defined with sharp lines of muscle, every angle of his body balanced between strength and elegance.
His skin bore no scars or blemishes — pale, unyielding, and faintly luminous as though frost itself clung to him.
His stomach, once flat and unimpressive, was a map of sculpted ridges, the kind that could only belong to warriors honed by years of brutal training. His arms and legs looked forged for power, yet every movement carried a strange grace that unsettled him.
But what truly stole his breath was his face.
It was his, yet not his.
Sharper cheekbones, a stronger jawline, lips cut with subtle precision — handsome in a way that was almost dangerous. His eyes burned brighter, the irises a piercing silver that shimmered faintly under the dim torchlight. And his hair—
He reached up, fingers trembling.
It wasn't the dull brown he remembered.
It had turned snow-white, each strand gleaming like woven ice. It cascaded slightly longer than before, tousled and wild, giving him the appearance of some mythic figure from legend.
A Greek god.
That was the only comparison his mind could grasp.
He stared, heart hammering, unable to reconcile the image with his memory.
This wasn't him, couldn't be him. And yet, when he moved, the reflection moved with him. When he raised a trembling hand to his face, the man in the mirror did the same.
A strangled laugh broke from his throat.
It was too much, too unreal.
He staggered back, gripping the frame of the mirror as dizziness swept over him again.
Power — raw and uncontained — surged beneath his skin, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
It made his muscles twitch, his bones ache, as though his very body was trying to contain something far greater than itself.
And yet, buried beneath the fear, beneath the confusion, was something else.
Excitement.
This was what he had wanted.
Power.
A way to protect himself, to stop being the weakest piece on the board. He had dreamed of strength, begged for it, and now—now it thrummed in his veins like wildfire.
His fists clenched involuntarily.
The stone floor beneath his feet groaned, faint cracks spiderwebbing out from the pressure.
"You like it?"
The voice slithered into the silence like silk.
Arlo spun, heart leaping into his throat.
And there she was.
Charlotte.
The Ice Dragon Queen lounged casually across his bed, one arm propped beneath her head, her legs crossed in effortless grace.
She looked utterly at ease, as though this were her private chamber and he was merely a guest — which, he supposed, wasn't far from the truth.
Her long silver hair spilled across the pillows like liquid moonlight, and her sapphire eyes glittered with amusement as they tracked his every movement.
Her smile was soft, playful, teasing.