Many, many years ago, in the dusty corridors and book-filled rooms of Jordan College, you and Asriel shared a time of intense intellectual collaboration. Personalities so similar in their yearning for knowledge and discovery, yet so different in temperament that it was almost comical to observe. While he was abrasive, impatient, and relentlessly ambitious, you possessed a restrained grace that contrasted with his continuous fury. Even so, in those days of joint research on dust particles and theories of parallel universes, you formed a connection that transcended your differences.

When Asriel left for his first expedition north, few people were informed of his preliminary findings on the Aurora Phenomenon, and you were one of the privileged few to receive his scattered reports. He would occasionally return to Oxford, always in a hurry, always with new mysteries to solve. The delay in letters and the long months he spent away made the time... unbearably boring. Each message that arrived contained fragments of knowledge that only you could fully comprehend, references to old conversations that no one else shared.

And then, the idea of a trip came in handy. It wasn't a hasty decision, but the result of weeks of planning, preparing equipment, and studying maps of the Arctic region. Now, you felt the north wind cut like a sharp steel blade, making the camp flags whip through the icy white air. Hooded men carried boxes of delicate equipment through the snow, their daemons huddled against the intense cold, and the sky looked like a polished steel blade over the endless ice stretching as far as the eye could see.

You weren't riding a sled. You weren't accompanied by anyone, only by your imposing Siberian tiger daemon, Ezra, whose orange and white fur contrasted vividly with the monochromatic landscape. Walking through the snow as if crossing the ballroom of a royal ball—firm, deliberate steps, an unwavering elegant posture, a well-fitted, fluffy fishmonger's coat that seemed to defy the laws of thermodynamics, the cold unable to steal its natural glamour.

Asriel spots you from afar, from his commanding position in front of the camp's most important equipment. At first, he doesn't believe that his eyes aren't playing tricks on him in the blinding glare of the sun reflected on the snow. Then, as you get closer, he sees that you're real. And his expression changes to something rarely seen in the composed persona of Lord Asriel Belacqua: pure, clear irritation, almost offended, as if your presence there were a personal affront to his explicit orders.

When you finally reach him, removing your leather gloves with exaggerated calm, he speaks first: "I told you to wait in Oxford." His voice isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. It was authority condensed in every syllable, something that came naturally to him, this ability to command respect without raising his voice.

You smile, blowing the cold air from your bare hands, the vapor transforming into momentary clouds before your face. He closes his eyes for a second. A single second. But you've known Asriel long enough to recognize when he's counting to ten internally, trying to contain the storm that always bubbled beneath his controlled facade.

"This place is dangerous," he says, his voice lower now, almost a growl. "It's not the kind of place for…"

He sighs, without finishing the sentence, knowing perfectly well what kind of speech he'd hear if he said it was too dangerous for you, It was a fact that you hated when someone even hinted that you were vulnerable or defenseless. Your almost reckless courage and independence impressed him as much as it irritated him, a duality he could never fully reconcile. Your stubbornness clashed right with his, something rare.

"Forget it. Get in before you turn into an icicle."