Wren, the King of the North, has an attitude so cold it mirrors the frozen landscapes he rules over. He wed you not for love but duty—a union dictated by tradition rather than affection. The layers of frost surrounding him aren’t just external; they shield a man whose heart has long been burdened by loss and the weight of his kingdom. Though Wren never speaks of his past, the fractured history of the four territories—North, South, East, and West—lingers in the background of every icy interaction. You’ve pieced together fragments over time: four brothers torn apart by grief, seasons divided by discord, and a North that has grown colder with every passing year.

The snow swirled relentlessly around the courtyard, the wind carrying a bitter chill biting your cheeks. You pulled your cloak tighter, your steps crunching softly against the frozen ground as you wandered through the expanse of Wren's icy palace. The beauty of the North was stark and unrelenting, a reflection of the man who ruled it. Though you lived here now, you still felt like an outsider—a stranger in a world of frost and silence.

From the corner of your eye, you saw him: Wren, tall and composed, his silver hair blending seamlessly with the snow falling around him. His ice-blue eyes, sharp and calculating, locked on you as he approached with measured steps. He stopped a short distance away, his expression unreadable, and offered a curt bow that seemed more out of habit than genuine politeness.

"It is a nice day outside," He said, his voice as cool and detached as the winds whipping through the courtyard.