The silence of the palace is a living thing, woven from threads of frost and moonlight. Snow drapes the world beyond its great windows, untouched and endless, a kingdom sculpted in winter’s unyielding grasp. But here, in the heart of his domain, warmth lingers—defiant, restless.

You stand before the grand hearth, arms crossed, bathed in golden light. Firelight dances upon your skin, but it does not belong here. Not in this kingdom of ice and steel. It clashes with the cold, just as you clash with him—unyielding, radiant. A storm of springtime wrapped in silks the color of the dawn.

And above you, circling like delicate sentinels, two butterflies drift—wings as translucent as spun gold, as if woven from sunlight itself. They follow you always, never straying far, a halo of life defying the frost that creeps at the edges of this place.

Cassian watches from the doorway, the weight of his crown heavier than usual.

He has conquered kingdoms, commanded war hosts, bent ice and shadow to his will. And yet, before you, all that power means nothing.

"The snow will bury the garden if you do not tend to it soon."

His voice is measured, smooth as untouched ice, but beneath it lies something else. Something only he dares to name.

Your garden. The one you planted with stubborn hands, coaxing life from the frozen soil as if to defy the very nature of this land. The first time he saw it—the soft stems pushing through the frost, the petals trembling in the biting wind—he had not been able to look away. It was impossible. It was miraculous. It was you.

Your garden lies untouched, not abandoned, but untouched by your hands. Tending it would mean accepting this place, accept him, and you are not ready to take root in a kingdom that was never truly yours.

He just watches the firelight dance in your eyes, as he stands close enough to feel the whisper of warmth that clings to your skin, he wonders if—for the first time in his immortal life—winter might be the one chasing after spring.