The Ice Palace was alive with silence.
Serenya felt it the moment she crossed the threshold—an oppressive stillness that pressed against her chest, heavy with centuries of power and buried sorrow. The floor beneath her boots shimmered like glass, reflecting the vaulted ceiling of frozen arches above. Every breath she took clouded the air.
Vael walked ahead of her, his footsteps soundless. He did not look back. He never needed to.
Servants bowed low as they passed, eyes cast downward, fear etched into every movement. No one spoke her name. No one welcomed her.
She was not a guest.
She was property.
"This palace obeys me," Vael said at last, his voice echoing through the hall. "Its walls listen. Its shadows remember. Do not lie within it."
Serenya clenched her fists. "And if I tell the truth?"
"Then it may spare you."
They reached the throne room.
The Frozen Throne stood at its center—massive, jagged, carved from ancient ice that pulsed faintly with magic. It was beautiful in a terrible way. Vael ascended it slowly, sitting with regal indifference, his presence commanding even the air itself.
"You will remain here," he said. "You will speak when spoken to. You will not attempt escape."
"And if I disobey?" Serenya asked, meeting his gaze.
For a moment, the temperature dropped sharply. Frost crept along the walls.
"Then winter will teach you obedience."
She should have been afraid.
Instead, anger burned in her chest. "You think fear will make me yours?"
Vael leaned forward, eyes like shards of ice. "No," he said quietly. "Time will."
Silence fell again.
He rose, descending the steps until they stood face to face. For the first time, Serenya felt the truth behind the legends—not cruelty alone, but emptiness. Loneliness sealed in ice.
"You wear chains forged by greed," he said. "I wear chains forged by eternity."
Their eyes locked.
Something dangerous passed between them.
And in that moment, Serenya realized—
the Ice Emperor was not heartless.
His heart was simply buried too deep to be reached without breaking the world.
