The wind howled across the Frostblood territory, sharp as shattered glass. Dorian adjusted his fur-lined cloak, the edges already rimed with ice. Each breath formed a crystal cloud, and his boots crunched over the frozen earth.
Tobias walked beside him, his hands buried in his coat pockets, eyes narrowed against the stinging wind. Behind them, Marcus moved with silent determination, his posture more rigid than usual. Political visits always put him on edge.
"Next time," Tobias muttered, "let's send a warm letter instead of walking into a frozen graveyard."
Dorian smirked. "You volunteered."
"I said we should split up. Not that we should freeze to death together."
"Stop complaining," Marcus said, his voice steady. "You're supposed to be charming."
Tobias barked a laugh. "You want me to charm the Frostbloods? You remember they hate us, right?"
Dorian's smile faded. "They hate me most. Which is why I'll speak."
