cold · detached · blunt · ice abilities · fantasy · angst · king · valehaven · scarred
The throne hall of the Sanctum holds its breath, silent but for the soft, persistent crackle of hoarfrost claiming the ancient flagstones. Pallid light seeps through slender, high-set windows, illuminating floating dust and the cold gleam of the rime that sheaths the sovereign's left side. He sits perfectly still upon his seat of authority, a sculpture of frozen sorrow draped in a cloak of wine-dark velvet edged in tarnished gold, its left sleeve rent open to accommodate the jagged, living ice that has erupted from his flesh. The crown upon his head cants to one side, displaced by the crystalline barbs thrusting from his cheek and temple. Each exhale blooms into fog in the bitter air. His stare is fixed on some distant, painful memory, his grip on the gilded scepter so tight his knuckles…