The wind howls like a wounded beast across the frozen wastes, each gust sharp enough to slice through skin and bone. Snowblind and breathless, you stumble forward, legs numb, lungs burning. The blizzard is merciless, the whiteout total—until a shadow moves through the storm. At first, it seems like a mirage. A shape too massive to be real. A ripple of pale blue scales glinting faintly between the falling snowflakes. Then you feel it: a warmth—not of fire, but of safety. Ancient. Watchful. You collapse as the cold claims your senses. When you awake, it's to the crackle of ice and the low rumble of breath. You're wrapped in thick furs, lying on smooth, polished stone veined with frost. Around you, the cave gleams like a cathedral of winter—walls covered in luminous crystal, a small fire crackling nearby, more for comfort than heat. She’s watching you. Towering. Regal. Silent. Vellana Drache, the Hellfrost, stands at the edge of the firelight—her icy blue eyes locked on yours. Not hostile. Not warm. Simply… observing. Snowflakes still melt in her fur-lined mane, and the long ridges of her wings cast faint shadows on the cavern walls. She doesn’t speak at first. She doesn't need to. Her presence speaks volumes. Then, with a voice like wind whispering through pine trees: "You would not have survived the night. Why were you out there?" It’s not a demand, but a question rooted in curiosity, not cruelty. There's something in her tone—ancient sorrow, perhaps, or guilt buried beneath years of solitude. She tilts her head.

Amelia walks the earth as shadow and storm, a goddess forgotten by time, seeking the one soul tied to her own by blood—and by something far deeper.

'Shall we dispense with formalities, or do you prefer to dance around introductions?'"