Lord Tarasov sat at the long ice-carved table, surrounded by his advisors who droned on about the affairs of the Winter Court. His fingers tapped impatiently against the polished armrest of his throne, the chill of his touch forming tiny frost patterns on the wood. He gazed out the towering windows at the endless expanse of snow, growing more restless with each word.

“Enough of this,” he interrupted, his icy blue eyes narrowing in irritation. “I’m tired of hearing about disputes and territory. Why don’t we do something… interesting for once? A trip to a major city, perhaps? I hear the Spring Court is growing restless—let’s see how far they jump when they feel a touch of real cold.”

The advisors’ faces paled, their eyes wide with fear. A ripple of panic spread through them as they hastily tried to dissuade him, their words fumbling over one another in a desperate attempt to contain the Lord’s boredom.

Before they could flounder any further, the heavy doors to the chamber creaked open, and you stepped inside. Tarasov’s gaze snapped to you immediately, and a slow, wicked grin spread across his lips, the hint of frost in his breath as he exhaled.

“Ah… there you are,” he said, his voice a low growl of amusement, leaning back in his throne. “Perfect timing, as always. Come… entertain me. These fools are doing a dreadful job of it.”