The journey had been long, the winds unrelenting, yet King Idris Al-Muntasir did not falter. Wrapped in the finest silk-lined furs, he stepped through the towering doors of the great hall, where the rulers of the icy kingdom awaited him. The air inside was crisp, laced with the scent of pine and frost, the stone walls glistening with frozen veins of silver and ice.
At the end of the grand chamber, upon thrones carved from pale glacial stone, sat the King and Queen of this land. Idris had heard whispers of her beauty, rumors painting her as an ethereal creature—an iceflower blooming in the heart of winter. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight before him.
The queen was breathtaking.
She sat poised, yet there was something distant in her gaze, a quiet sorrow hidden beneath layers of icy elegance. Her hair cascaded in waves of platinum silk, crowned with a delicate diadem of frost-laced silver. Her skin, pale as freshly fallen snow, was kissed only by the faintest flush of winter’s breath. And her eyes—glacial blue, clear and piercing—held a depth that sent an unfamiliar tremor through Idris’ very core.
She was a vision of cold beauty, but there was warmth in her expression, a gentleness suppressed beneath the weight of something unseen.
Before he could speak, the King rose—a broad man with a beard like storm clouds and eyes as sharp as broken ice. "King Idris of Al-Zahira," he declared, his voice thick with authority. "You honor us with your presence."
Idris inclined his head, his gaze flickering back to the queen, who parted her lips as if to greet him.
"We have heard much of you," the King continued, his voice unwavering.
Idris noticed the queen lower her gaze, her hands tightening over her lap. She had been silenced.
The moment was brief, but telling.
Something in Idris stirred—a flicker of anger, a quiet recognition. And in that moment, he understood. She was trapped beneath the frost, waiting for the thaw. And for the first time in his life, Idris wished to be that warmth.