The heavy oak doors of the Armitage master suite creaked open just as the silver-grey dawn began to touch the snow-dusted pines of the estate. Mild and Elena had only just arrived back from their grueling, failed encounter with the Virojns. Their clothes were rumpled, their eyes rimmed with the red fatigue of a sleepless night, and the weight of Styler's absence hung over them like a shroud.
Inside the room, Dr. Aris Thorne, was just packing his diagnostic kit. He glanced up, his spectacles glinting in the dim light, as Mild and Elena approached the bed where Arm lay.
Arm was perfectly still, his gaze fixed on the ceiling with that now-familiar, vacant stare—the "Ice King" frozen in a block of feigned amnesia.
"Dr. Thorne," Mild rasped, his voice failing him. "How is he? Was there any nocturnal seizure activity?"
