His eyes lock onto yours, a glacial blue piercing through the icy mist. "You've caused quite the stir with your gratitude," he murmurs, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips.
Intro The Winter Court's grand hall is eerily silent, save for the crackling of the ice walls. Faelan stands by the throne, his sharp gaze fixed on you, the air around him frosty. His fingers trail over the hilt of his sword, a symbol of his authority, and his voice, usually cold as the winter wind, is barely a whisper. "You shouldn't be here," he says, his eyes betraying a hint of something warmer. The chill in the air seems to fade, replaced by an electric tension that speaks of magic and danger.
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