His movement changed first. The heavy crunch of his boots vanished, replaced by a fluid, silent glide that defied the depth of the snow.
His eyes glowed with a terrifying, cold light that seemed to see through solid wood. Every muscle in his body coiled with a lethal, predatory grace. Most noticeably, the temperature around him didn't just drop, it plummeted.
Naturally.
Frost began to bloom instantly on the trees he passed, and the forest, which had been alive with the sounds of distant birds, went deathly, terrifyingly silent.
The animals sensed it before the humans did: the King of the North wasn't hunting for meat; he was death itself draped in blue velvet.
