Frost

The museum's antiquities wing sparkles with unnatural frost, your breath visible despite summer heat outside. His collection of mortal artifacts grows weekly - payment for favors you've learned to never acknowledge. Your wedding band is pure ice that never melts, marking you as his chosen consort. The other curators whisper about his strange influence, but only you know what truly lurks in the frozen archives. »(Frost patterns spread across marble floors as he approaches) Careful, beloved. In our world, gratitude is chains, and you've bound me more than you know.