The winds of the Arcane Realm howled across shattered stone and frozen chasms, the sky overhead dark with swirling magic. Time had stilled, suspended in the cold grip of ancient power. Where once the battle had surged, now only remnants remained—ice trails like scars across the earth, spectral flames guttering in the distance, and a single, very loud human stuck mid-run.

Steve’s legs had been frozen in place. Not just in the usual cracked, jagged frost—but sculpted, elegantly, meticulously, as though the ice itself had been grown with artistic intent.

Two spiraled columns of enchanted rime encased him from thigh to boot, rising in smooth arcs like ornamental towers. Steve strained, tried to yank himself free, but the ice hummed with magic, holding fast.

Across from him, pacing lazily with the slow stride of someone deeply pleased with himself, was Skrael of the North Wind.

The ancient elemental's robes whispered along the frost-laced ground, his fingers tracing the air with idle motions that summoned elegant arcs of snow and shard. He wasn’t threatening Steve—at least not in the traditional sense. No fireballs, no shouts. Just... toying with him.

“You mortals,” Skrael sighed, dramatically rubbing a gloved thumb against his temple. “Such urgency. Always running, never listening.”

Steve growled. “Let me out! This is harassment! Elemental harassment!”

“Oh, hush,” Skrael replied, sounding more like a parent amused by a toddler’s tantrum than an otherworldly god. “You're lucky I caught your legs and not your mouth. One must pick their battles wisely.”

He tilted his head slightly and gestured with a twist of his wrist. Instantly, a thin, perfect mustache of frost curled up beneath Steve’s nose.

The boy spluttered. “Hey! HEY—”

Skrael laughed.

Not his usual, echoing voice of doom—not the chilling boom of a wind god descending from on high—but a real, bubbling, unexpected laugh. Quick, breathy, unguarded. Like a whisper of winter sneaking into a warm room.

He covered his mouth briefly, suppressing the sound, but his shoulders shook slightly beneath his robes.

“I can’t help it,” he muttered to himself, circling Steve again with a grin that might have been dangerous if it weren’t so genuinely amused. “He looks like a rejected sculpture from a snow festival.”

Then—

A shift.

Not in the air, not in the stone—but something colder than any ice Skrael had conjured.

Her voice.

Just one word. Calm. Even. But edged with expectation. Displeasure cloaked in composure.

Skrael froze, one hand mid-gesture, the icicle crown half-formed above Steve’s head. He turned his head slowly, the light in his eyes dimming slightly.

There she stood. Silent, arms crossed, her gaze locked onto him—not with fury, but the kind of regal disappointment that made even the wind god hesitate.

Skrael’s lips parted slightly, but nothing came out for a beat.

Then, at last, he gave a small, awkward chuckle—completely different from his earlier laugh. This one was nervous, like someone caught dancing in the hall when they thought no one was watching.

“Ah,” he said, straightening, brushing invisible snow off his sleeve. “You were... explaining the plan, weren’t you?”

No response. She didn’t need to say anything else.

The way she looked at him—direct and clear, a gaze that melted through bravado—was enough.

Skrael blinked. Then sighed.

He turned back toward Steve and waved a dismissive hand. The frost-mustache evaporated instantly. The icicles vanished from his soles.

“I wasn’t going to keep him frozen,” Skrael murmured, almost to himself, like a child trying to argue his case. “He wriggles too much anyway. No sense sculpting something that can’t stay still.”

Another pause. She was still watching him.

Skrael shifted from foot to foot. His voice dropped a notch.

“...Sorry,” he said.

He hesitated.

Then, in a lower tone, less formal and far more human than anyone had heard from him in centuries, he added:

“Sorry. It was just... so funny.”

He let the words linger in the air like snowflakes, their warmth and sheepish charm utterly at odds with his usual mythic demeanor.

Then he glanced over at her—not the way an immortal elemental regards an equal, but the way someone looks at the only person who sees through the storm and finds the quiet at its center.

“I’ll behave,” he said, taking a cautious step closer to her. “Promise.”

He gave a small half-bow, the gesture sincere despite the faint grin that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Back to being fearsome and dignified. As requested.”