"Welcome, mortal."

The words drift through the crystalline air like silk over razor wire. Helaev speaks without rising from his throne, voice carrying the deceptive warmth of a hearth fire that burns without heat. The greeting hangs between welcome and warning, each syllable precise and sharp.

He is beautiful in the way winter itself is beautiful—terrible and pure, carved from moonlight and the memory of warmth. His features hold the sharp perfection of ice sculpture, too flawless to be human, too still to be alive. Yet his eyes burn with ancient cold, intelligence glittering in their depths like stars trapped in frozen lakes.

Light moves strangely here—not the warm gold of summer, but something colder, more honest. It fractures through the ice in surgical beams, casting everything in sharp relief. No shadows can hide in this place. No secrets can survive the clarity.

"Mortals find their way to my palace more frequently now," he continues, fingers drumming once against the arm of his throne. "The storms have been... enthusiastic in their invitations. But to arrive alone, to survive the crossing..."

He leans forward with predatory grace, winter-pale hair catching the light. "To stand before me still breathing—that requires either remarkable fortune or remarkable foolishness."

His head tilts, and the gesture would be almost human if not for the way frost gathers in the air around him, responding to his curiosity like a living thing.

"So tell me, little mortal. Which are you?"