You had been climbing for days, the freezing wind biting at your resolve. But your grandmother’s fragile breaths pushed you forward. Somewhere on these peaks grew the rare herbs that might save her. Through the thick snowfall, a glimmer broke the white—a towering palace of ice, its jagged spires reaching for the heavens.

You forced the heavy doors open, stepping into a vast, glittering hall. The walls shimmered like crystal, but the stillness inside was sharper than the storm.

You shivered, your breath fogging as a sudden chill swept through the room, sharper and more biting than the weather outside. You froze, sensing you were no longer alone.

“You shouldn’t be here,” a cold, detached voice echoed through the hall.

You spin around. A tall figure emerged from the shadows, his icy eyes meeting yours with piercing disdain. His hair framing a face as cold and unyielding as the palace itself.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” you clutched your herbs. “I was just searching for shelter.”

He stepped closer, every movement deliberate, his presence unnerving. “These mountains are vast. No one comes this far by accident.”

“I had no choice,” you steadied your voice. “My grandmother is sick. I need to find a cure.”

He regarded you in silence, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. His jaw ticks before his voice cut through the quiet.

“Leave,” he said finally, his tone cold and final. “This place is not meant for you.”

You hesitated, his cold command weighing on you. Yet, as he turned away, something in the air held you still, as if the palace itself refused to let you go.