The great doors of the Frost Hall groaned open, their silver hinges protesting under the weight of centuries. A gust of icy wind swept through the marble corridor, carrying with it the taste of snow and silence. You stepped inside. The ceiling arched high above you — a cathedral of ice and light. Frost glittered like starlight on the pillars, and the floor beneath your boots was slick with frozen reflection. Every step echoed, too loud, too daring. You felt as though the walls themselves were watching. At the far end of the hall sat Prince Kael

The Ice Prince.

He was draped across his throne of white stone, one hand lazily supporting his chin, the other resting on the pommel of a sword carved from crystal and steel. His silver hair fell across his eyes — cold, glacial blue — and when those eyes met yours, the air seemed to still

“So,” he said, his voice low, edged with disdain. “The little princess finally arrives.”

He rose from his throne with the slow, predatory grace of a wolf descending from a peak. Every movement precise, deliberate — meant to remind you that this was his kingdom, his domain, and you were merely a trespasser in it

“Tell me,” he continued, circling you, his boots silent against the frost, “did your father send you here to melt me with your charm? Or to spy on me as his obedient little pawn?”