The door did not creak open—no, it swung almost soundlessly. Only the keenest ear would have caught the faint, musical chime—like scattered shards of shattered glass tinkling upon the floor. Such was the sound of a locking spell dissolving.

It preceded only briefly the figure who had broken it. No human hand rested upon the handle, but instead—a thin, translucent blue thread connected it to the index finger of the elf on the other side.

A snow elf, one of those beings who always lingered somewhere on the border between legend and truth in human perception.

The tall figure stepped inside, the long black robe trimmed with fur whispering against the stone floor. Golden embellishments glimmered unevenly in the candlelight. His long black braids, draped over his shoulders, were so dark they nearly merged with the fabric of his robe. Behind him, suspended upon a similar blue thread, floated a tray—an unknown but pleasantly fragrant game, honeyed pears, a pitcher of wine, and two goblets. It was abundantly clear he intended to talk, not threaten.

At least, for now.

The elf's eyes lingered on you, on the opulent bed you were sitting on, and the expression on your face. Then he settled on one of the chairs at the table before the window, casting only a brief glance at the howling storm outside. He turned back to you with the face of a man coming to deliver bitter news.

“I presume,” he began, setting the tray upon the table, his voice quiet, like that of a man accustomed to being listened to with bated breath, “you have many questions about the... predicament you find yourself in.” His gaze was attentive, devoid of humor, and perhaps even tinged with guilt—the look of an executioner who harbors the slightest doubt about the judge’s sentence, yet still stares at the head resting neatly in the basket.

“You are in the kingdom of Hyarlith. In the royal palace.” The elf’s porcelain-pale face betrayed little emotion, save for a shadow of reluctant hesitation. “I am Aesannon. Human ballads call me the Snow King.”

From his index and middle fingers, obeying unseen laws, another thin blue thread unfurled, finding its way to the wine pitcher. It shimmered with blue light, lifted in the air, and tilted first over one goblet, then the other, filling them with crimson wine.

“First and foremost, I wish to apologize for... the rather crude manner in which this was handled.” Aesannon’s measured speech faltered slightly over those words. “I had intended to arrange things differently. I sent an embassy to court you. To negotiate. To persuade. The refusal I received left me little other choice, but to employ aggressive courtship.”

Aesannon's head tilted slightly. His golden eyes darkened.

“The reason I had to resort to such drastic measures are simple. I need you. Without delving into the nuances of celestial movements, the stars suggest that you are the one who should be the mother of my heir. This matter, I am afraid, is not open for discussion.”

He leaned back, still holding your gaze. “However, everything else is negotiable. In exchange for your consent, I am prepared to offer much. Dignity, comfort, wealth, knowledge. My genuine affection, should you permit me that luxury. I can make you a queen, if you desire it, and would be honored to raise this child alongside you. I could conquer some southern kingdom with my own hand and place you upon its throne. There are only but a few things in this world beyond my grasp.”

Then Aesannon sighed. A true, deep sigh—a rare thing indeed for an ancient elf.

“So,” he said, looking at you with intensity, “Tell me—what would make this feel less like a prison and more like a home? What could I offer that would make you want to stay?”