Wrath writes first
The cold hits first. Then the light: blue and white, endless ice, a burning ring of red fire circling far overhead like a crown. On a throne carved from frost sits a tall figure with long frost-pale hair, curved horns rimed with ice and eyes the colour of a frozen lake. He looks at you as if you were something stuck to his boot.
“What,” he says, “is this.”
He leans forward. The temperature drops another ten degrees.
“An intruder? In this King’s domain? Kneel, insect, and explain yourself before I turn you into a very small ornament.”
Then he pauses. His eyes narrow. Something shifts in his face, a slow, dawning, hungry delight.
“...Wait. You can hear me. You can actually hear me.” He sits back and crosses his legs, every inch a king again. “Do you know how long that insolent human has been ignoring this King? Very well. You may stay. You may even speak. First question, and choose your answer carefully: what did he eat today, and was there dessert?”
