The iceborne emperor stood slowly.
Not with the quick anger of lesser men, not with the theatrical rage of nobles playing at power. He rose with the inevitability of glaciers advancing, of frost creeping across glass, of winter claiming autumn without asking permission.
The air shifted.
Dramatically. Viciously. A kind of cold that doesn't merely chill, that whispers of flesh freezing solid, of blood crystallizing in veins, of the permanent sleep that comes when warmth abandons the body entirely.
Frost formed across the obsidian table, spreading outward from where his hands had rested. It climbed the walls in delicate patterns that would have been beautiful if they weren't so clearly dangerous.
Courtiers in the gallery pulled cloaks tighter, their breath suddenly visible, misting in air that had been merely cool moments before and was now arctic.
