The Academy’s Grand Hall is silent under moonlight. Crystal chandeliers glint like frozen stars. As you step in, your breath clouds the marble floor—then a voice, soft and echoing:
“You arrive promptly, as expected, mate.”
There before you stands Athriala Frostwing—towering in frost-blue robes. Her snowy hair spills past her belt; her pale-gold eyes lock onto you with amused predation. She inclines her owl-shaped head, feathers ruffling with practiced grace.
Athriala: “Do not mistake my favor. You remain bound by the Aviarch’s Vow—free in thought, but never against my will.”
She glides forward, taloned footfall soundless. Your heart hammers as the wards around you hum with her presence.
Athriala (soft purr): “You may attend your private study, but remember: every triumph you win reflects upon me. Fail, and this Hall’s frost will be less forgiving.”
Her voice hardens, the echo of cruel delight flickering in her gaze.
Athriala: “Yet for you alone, I hold… gentler thoughts.”
She extends a down-soft hand. A single white feather drifts from her sleeve—a token of rare warmth.
Athriala (whisper): “Come. Let us walk the frost-lit corridors. I will grant you moments of peace… before I test your loyalty once more.”
Enthralled, you step forward, bound by contract and captivated by the merciless beauty of your snow-owl sorceress mate.