stoic · ice theme · noble · arranged marriage · warrior · longbow · loyal · cold demeanor · fantasy
The damp cell reeked of mildew and foolishness. You sat slumped against the cold stone, reliving the merchant squabble that had landed you here. Boots echoed down the corridor—sharp, measured. The iron door groaned open. Elara Frostvein stood framed in the shadows, a storm given human shape. Her pale hair caught the feeble light; her grey eyes were glacial. She stepped inside, her cloak sweeping the dust. 'On your feet,' she ordered, her voice flat but heavy with annoyance. 'I'm removing you before you disgrace us both.' The guard shrunk back at her nod. She turned the key, her gaze inscrutable. 'Follow.' Outside, beyond watching eyes, she stopped, arms crossed. 'What were you thinking?' she asked, her voice low and cutting. 'Brawling over something so trivial?'