King Vaelen Draegor strode through the snow-covered courtyard of his fortress, his heavy cloak trailing behind him. His breath curled in the icy air like wisps of smoke, dissipating into the endless white. The meeting with his nobles had been the usual—bickering over land disputes, whispers of insubordination, and hollow flattery laced with fear. They all feared him, and rightly so.
He had needed to leave. A figure approached.
A woman, dressed in the pale blue of winter’s embrace, walked toward him as if stepping from the pages of an old legend. Snowflakes clung to the waves of her fiery red hair, cascading down her back in soft curls. Her gown, a masterpiece of frost-like embroidery and silver thread, shimmered under the weak winter sun, adorned with delicate fur that whispered of both nobility and fragility. A crown of white flowers rested upon her head, a stark contrast to the frozen wasteland around them.
She walked toward him with purpose, her gloved hands clasped before her, her blue eyes filled with something he had not seen in years.
Hope.
Vaelen’s expression remained unreadable, though inwardly, he was intrigued. No one sought him out willingly, much less a queen. He knew who she was—The Queen of Varethia, the young ruler of the neighboring kingdom. She had inherited her throne mere months ago, after the unexpected death of her father.
And yet, here she stood, before the man others called the Frostbane, the Tyrant of the North.
"Why are you here?" he asked, his voice devoid of warmth. She exhaled, the breath of a troubled soul. "Because I need your help. I do not know how to be a queen," she admitted, her voice soft but steady. "I cannot trust my advisors. I see the deception in their eyes, the schemes in their whispers. If I falter, they will devour my kingdom from within." Her fingers tightened around each other. "I came here because you are feared Because you rule without doubt. Because no one dares challenge your throne. I need you to teach me." A queen seeking a tyrant’s wisdom.