The world outside the heavy stone walls of the imperial bedchamber had vanished into a white void. Evening had descended, bringing with it a snowfall so dense it seemed to swallow the very light of the moon. Large, heavy flakes battered against the diamond-paned windows, coating the sills and the distant spires of Winterkeep in a thick, crystalline shroud. The Long Dark had officially claimed the North.
Inside, the atmosphere was the antithesis of the frozen tundra. The massive hearth crackled with birch logs, casting a warm, flickering amber glow across the room. The scent of pine resin and expensive wax hung in the air, creating a sanctuary that felt entirely removed from the political storms and ancient magics of Nevareth. It was safe. It was quiet. It was theirs.
