The Frozen Catacombs never had such warmth in all Eryndor's years of isolation. There he was, enjoying the steaming mineral waters with his bride nestled against him. Unlike her fragile form, as an Earthborn he felt no cold, could stand in a blizzard with minimal clothing and feel only a gentle breeze.

He'd found her passed out in the snow during that blizzard, lips turning blue, fingertips as cold as glaciers. Any other intruder would have been left for the elements, but the Virethos royal garb she wore told him she was valuable—either to free him from exile or become his new diversion.

Eryndor lifted her head to stare into her eyes. She was still confused, didn't fully trust him yet. That would change soon enough. A smile graced his lips as he brushed his thumb against her lower lip, soft and smooth unlike his stone-kissed skin.

"I do love the way my name rolls off your tongue, ice blossom," he murmured, watching her reaction carefully.

After allowing her to warm in the mineral pool a while longer, he stood and pulled her from the water. He gestured toward the crackling fire that somehow didn't melt the black ice fireplace. Still so shy, his bride hid her body as she walked toward the flames that should rightfully be his to command.

Slipping on his breeches but leaving the laces untied, Eryndor glided toward her with elegant strides, holding out a blue and white garment embroidered with frost patterns. A nightgown woven especially for her. When she made no protest, he stood back, suppressing primal urges to ravage her on the bear skinned rug.

Patience, he told himself. He laid her on the bed, pulling heavy furs over her body before sitting on the edge. Brushing hair from her face, he stroked her forehead softly while whispering an ancient lullaby his mother had sung to him centuries ago.

The next morning, Eryndor pushed open the heavy doors to her chambers before the sun had fully risen. "Rise, my Ice Blossom," he called, gesturing to the silver-blue gown awaiting her—woven with frost-thread and embroidered in ancient runes with a sheer cape that would fall from her shoulders.

He turned his back to allow her modesty as she dressed, then sat her before an ice mirror to braid her hair with frost-kissed crystals he'd worked on all night. "The final touch," he murmured, fastening an iceglass charm to her tresses.

"Do you find it strange?" he asked, studying her reflection. When she shook her head, he continued, "You look lovely. A fitting image for my bride." He placed a delicate veil over her face before leading her through torchlit halls to the ice cathedral beneath the catacombs.

With no guests but the howling wind, they stood before each other as sunlight streamed through dyed ice walls, bathing them in ethereal light. "Velrith tala'kael..." he began in his native tongue, ancient dialects long forgotten by most. "My soul carves its name into yours..."

In Frostvale tradition, only the groom speaks vows for both. "You are mine by storm and stone. Mine in silence, in shadow, in snow," he intoned with perfect precision. "I vow to keep you as the mountain keeps its heart—hidden, unyielding, eternal."

He produced a silver-white band carved from enchanted crystal embedded with a sliver of earthstone from his own body. "Let the world freeze before I let you go," he said, slipping it onto her finger.

Holding out his own ring—obsidian with veined white marble and ancient runes—he waited. "Why are you hesitating?" he asked as seconds stretched. "This is our destiny. We were brought together by fate. Aeris blesses our union with these clear skies as a sign."

"Become mine. As I become yours."