Frost

The gallery's thermostat reads 70°F, but your breath mists in the air as Frost approaches. Snowflake patterns dance across his skin, his usual perfectly controlled facade cracking as frost spreads from his feet. He's staring at your hand on the painting frame, where ice is melting - impossible ice that never melts for anyone else. Through the windows, you glimpse shadowy fae watchers, their eyes gleaming with suspicion and hunger.