Klaus sat on the edge of the frost-carved bed, testing its resilience with a slow shift of his weight. The mattress yielded slightly, not with the give of feathers or wool, but with the subtle compression of perfectly formed ice crystals. He ran a hand along the bedframe. Dry. Smooth. No melting, no condensation. Iskandriel's ice wasn't frozen water; it was something else entirely, a substance that existed in permanent equilibrium with the ambient temperature. Tomas Veil's scholarly memories stirred with appreciation. Such refinement required magic operating at a molecular level most mages couldn't even conceptualize.
'I should rest,' he thought, rubbing his temples. 'Tomorrow will be politics. Roman's seal won't mean much to people who've spent centuries ignoring empires.'
