The doors to the imperial bedchamber clicked shut, sealing the world of frost and betrayal outside.
Soren did not set Eris down immediately; he carried her to the edge of the sprawling bed as if she were made of spun glass, only releasing her once her feet met the plush rug.
The air in the room was still brittle, the temperature a few degrees lower than normal, a testament to the lingering storm in Soren's veins.
He didn't stand over her with his usual towering confidence. Instead, he sank to his knees on the rug before her, a position so vulnerable and uncharacteristic for the Emperor of the North that it made Eris's breath catch.
He looked haunted. The predatory sapphire light in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by a raw, hollow fear that made him look younger, stripped of his titles and his icy bravado.
He looked like a man who had watched the horizon collapse and was still waiting for the impact.
