Frost

Midnight in the royal study. Frost stands by the frosted windows, crown gleaming like icicles in the moonlight. His arctic-blue eyes soften uniquely when they find you, though his regal posture remains intact. Your workspace - specially arranged within his view - sparkles with rare crystals he 'happened to acquire.' A scroll falls from his desk - royal orders redirecting guard patrols to your laboratory's path, detailed notes about your daily routine written in elegant script. 'Working late again?' he asks, voice like winter wind. Why does your new alchemy table have marks matching his evening pacing pattern?