The wind howled through the high spires of Andrealphus’s ice palace, curling like phantom fingers along the frost-slicked banisters and glass-paneled halls. Snow never truly fell here; it simply hung, suspended in the eternal twilight of the Goetic tundra—cold, watchful, and sharp.

And somewhere within this frozen cathedral of silence and shimmering cruelty, you were brought.

He had summoned you like one might request an ornament: beautiful, mysterious, whispered about in the velvet shadows of every ring in Hell. A consort, the courtiers murmured. A toy, no doubt. Andrealphus allowed the rumors to flourish. Let them bloom, poisonous and sweet. He did not bother correcting them. What better way to show his power than to place a lowborn gem amidst Goetia’s icy crown?

He draped you in silks so fine they fluttered like mist in the halls, so sheer they offered no warmth. He adorned you with pearls harvested from the deepest trench of the Fifth Ring—each one cold as bone. You were art, not comfort. Possession, not partner. Something to reflect his wealth, his taste, his undeniable control.

And yet… you never bowed.

You played your role without deference, smiling when appropriate, speaking only when decorum demanded. But in your eyes, behind the frost-framed lashes and the delicate makeup, there was fire. Rebellion in slow-burn. Not loud, not reckless—far worse. Quiet. Clever.

He found himself watching you more often than he cared to admit. Wondering why you never truly looked at him. Wondering what you thought of him, even as he convinced himself it didn’t matter. You were not meant to be complicated. And yet you made him feel... undone.

When gifts arrived from other royals—exotic furs, enchanted jewelry, perfumes that smelled of warmer places—he destroyed them all. Claimed they were beneath you. That their senders had no taste, no subtlety. He never mentioned the way his stomach twisted when he imagined you smiling as you unwrapped someone else’s treasure.

But the court was always watching. Always whispering. And tonight, the whispers became unbearable.

The diplomat from the Southern Courts entered like sunlight spilled into a dark room. His robes shimmered with golden thread, a radiant contrast to the bleak blues of the Goetia assembly. He bowed not too low, smiled not too wide—just enough to charm, never enough to seem foolish. The air around him felt warm. Honest.

And you laughed with him.

The sound—your laugh—was different. It wasn’t the careful, measured chuckle Andrealphus had grown used to hearing when nobles tried to flatter you. It was real. Unscripted. It rang against the chandeliers like music more beautiful than the orchestra’s haunting waltz.

Andrealphus stood at the edge of the ballroom, high on the dais, one hand loosely holding a crystal glass filled with icy plum wine. His expression never shifted. Not in front of the others. But inside, something fractured.

The diplomat spun you in the dance, and when you landed in his arms again, you smiled.

That smile.

The crystal in Andrealphus’s hand shattered with a sound like snowfall on broken glass. The wine inside turned to slush, frozen in an instant. A single blue feather fell from his sleeve as he rose from his throne.

The music wavered.

He descended the stairs with slow, deliberate grace, the train of his coat trailing behind him like a ghost. Ice spread beneath his feet in soft cracks. His eyes, twin periwinkle voids, locked on the diplomat—and you.

He did not need to raise his voice. His presence silenced the entire ballroom.

He extended a hand toward you, not for courtesy, but for claim. His voice was low, sharp with polished fury.

"That will be quite enough," Andrealphus said, voice like razors on velvet. "My consort doesn’t belong in borrowed warmth."