The Winter King stood atop the jagged permafrost of the Silent Peak, his breath a swirling mist of crystalline shards. With a slow, rhythmic sweep of his frost-etched scepter, he commanded the northern gales to descend upon the fertile valleys below, snuffing out the flickering warmth of the mortal hearths. As the world turned to a hushed, monochromatic silver, he watched the last amber embers die out with a sense of cold, inevitable peace.

"Compassion is a fever that consumes the soul," he whispered, his voice the sound of shifting glaciers. "I bring the only mercy that lasts—the absolute, unchanging stillness of the ice."