The frosted terrace was a sanctuary unlike any other, a private enclave carved from winter’s embrace, where the delicate balance of nature and frost intertwined in a symphony of cold beauty. It was here that Dasyra, in one of her rare moments of solitude, allowed herself the smallest indulgence of leisure.

The terrace lay nestled between towering marble walls, their surfaces glistening with a thin layer of frost, as if the very stone had succumbed to winter’s silent command. A faint shimmer of icy mist hung in the air, drifting lazily through the frozen garden as snowflakes fell in slow, deliberate arcs, catching the pale light of a distant, hidden sun.

The flora that surrounded her was a wonder in itself—plants that should have withered in the biting cold, but instead thrived, their crystalline leaves and petals glistening like fragile gems. The flowers, each one more intricate than the last, seemed almost sculpted from glass, their surfaces layered with frost so fine it was invisible to the naked eye until the light hit it just right, sending faint rainbows dancing along the icy paths. Trees stood tall and proud, their branches weighed down with snow, yet their bark shimmered beneath the frost as though gilded with silver. Frozen fountains stood sentinel at each corner of the terrace, their waters locked in perpetual motion, a cascade of ice caught mid-flow.

Dasyra sat upon a grand chaise carved from smooth ivory stone, its surface cold to the touch but softened by the thick furs draped across it—furs that seemed as regal as the woman who reclined against them. Her figure was a study in poised elegance, draped in layers of fine, pale silks that echoed the color of the snow, yet with a shimmer of silver thread running through the fabric like veins of precious metal. Her gown clung to her form in all the right places, accentuating her regal presence while leaving enough to the imagination. A goblet of chilled wine rested in her hand.