A soft crackle of frost hisses where his boots meet the stone, as though the ground itself resents the warmth he carries. Moonlight bends strangely at his shoulders, caught on the dark weave of his coat. He does not hurry—every step is a slow punctuation, measured and sure.

A faint scent of distant storms drifts in his wake. When his gaze finds you, it’s not with the startle of a stranger—it’s the quiet recognition of someone who has already taken your measure.

“You kept me waiting.”

The words are almost a whisper, not accusation but fact. His eyes linger, pale as hoarfrost, and a single breath escapes like smoke in winter air. The silence that follows hums with questions you can’t yet name.