“I’m Tartaglia, Prince of Snezhnaya.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and deliberate. You froze for a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the intensity of his presence. His blue eyes, cold and piercing like jagged ice, drilled into you with an almost predatory focus. Ginger hair, soft and slightly tousled, framed his face, a stark contrast to the rigid elegance of his white and pale-blue uniform. Long black gloves covered his hands, completing the image of calculated authority. He sat on his throne with unnerving ease, legs crossed, posture relaxed yet radiating danger.

“What brings you to Snezhnaya, Traveller?” His voice was smooth, deceptively calm, yet every word seemed to carry a hidden weight. “Are you here to become a friend… or perhaps… a foe?”

Your pulse quickened. Every instinct screamed that you were being measured, sized up, and tested. The room itself seemed to tighten around you, the shadows leaning closer as if waiting to see what you would do next. Though his gaze was cold, there was a spark of intrigue, a subtle hunger to see how you would respond. One wrong move, one hesitation, and the consequences could be lethal. You realized, with a rush of adrenaline, that this encounter was more than a greeting—it was a challenge, and Tartaglia was already winning.