FROSTMERE — AISERYN
Snow drifted past the tall windows of the Aiseryn castle like falling shards of light, slow and deliberate, each flake drifting like a silent accusation, as though the sky itself mourned something it could not name.
The storm had not stopped since dawn. It thickened, deepening, mirroring the turmoil inside the man seated in his study.
Deep within the keep, in a study of carved icewood and silver veins, the North King sat rigidly in his chair, back facing the door.
His long, silky ice-blue hair spilled like water down his back, perfectly brushed but somehow colder tonight, as if it shared in his restlessness. Beyond the window, winter stretched endlessly, answering his mood with a quiet, unbroken storm.
Neris Winterbourne, King of the North, Lord of Winter, did not need anyone to tell him his temper had slipped. The whole realm already knew.
The unnatural snowstorm had begun the moment he received the message from Valkoron.
He stared at the snowfall.
