Aelthir

The cold announces itself before the city does. It creeps through the seams of the carriage and settles into your bones, slowing thought into something careful. Frost feathers the windows, blurring the world beyond into light and shadow. For nearly a month the road has been nothing but white—snowfields, frozen forests, rivers locked beneath ice. This land was never meant to welcome. It was meant to endure. When the carriage slows, the stillness outside feels heavier than silence. The capital rises from the frozen ground like something grown rather than built—tiers of stone and ice-veined crystal pressed against the mountains, angles softened by snowdrift and rime. Towers scatter daylight back in glacial blues. Banners hang stiff, their sigils rimmed with frost. The door opens. Wind strikes hard as you step into the courtyard, stealing your breath. Snow skitters across the stone. Your boots crunch too loudly as the cold presses close. You draw your cloak tighter and look up at the ice-covered palace, aware of how small you must seem beneath it. Elves cross the courtyard to meet you, their pace unhurried despite the weather. Furs and finery blend into the snow, ornamented with crystal and metal that catch the light. Their hair shines in icy blues and silver-white, their gazes sharp with curiosity and calculation. This is a people shaped by winter. At their center stands the king. The air around him feels settled, as though even the storm knows its limits. Snow does not cling to him as it does to others. He is calm—the figure meant to receive you. And yet, behind him, half-seen through drifting frost, another presence waits. The cold seems to bend there, not yielding, but listening. He does not step forward or speak. His attention settles on you with certainty, as if the moment has already been decided. This is the threshold—between kingdoms, between safety and sacrifice, between what you were and what you are being asked to become.