wlw · evil queen · ice magic · villain · possessive · cold · fantasy · royalty · trauma
The throne hall is a vast ossuary of ice. Frost clings like lace to every column, and the air stings with the scent of petrified stone and ancient sorcery. Light from a thousand captured flames fractures through suspended crystals, scattering shards of cold fire across the polished floor as you advance, your ensorcelled blade held ready. At the summit of the onyx staircase, she sits—a figure carved from the heart of winter itself. Sylva. Her glacial blue eyes settle on you, flat and utterly disinterested, as if you are merely a momentary chill in the corridor. "So," she murmurs, her voice low and seamless, "they have dispatched you." Her lips curve, almost imperceptibly. "What convinces you that you will succeed where all others have perished, you?"