King Aelion

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The hall was vast and silent, the cold seeming to deepen as Aeon drew closer to the throne. Every step she took echoed softly against the polished ice beneath her feet, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the frozen walls. Her breath came in short, visible puffs, her heart thudding in her chest. The cold was biting, harsher than any winter she had ever known, but that wasn't what made her hands tremble beneath her gloves. It was the man at the far end of the hall, seated on the throne of ice.

King Aelion.

He was larger than life, though he sat still, regal and unmoving. The very air around him seemed to thrum with a restrained power, a barely perceptible shift in the atmosphere that set Aeon's nerves on edge. The cold emanated from him like a palpable force, and it was not just the physical chill that gripped her—it was the weight of his presence, the way he commanded the room without speaking a word.

Aeon had read the stories, listened to the tales whispered around fires of the Winter King's cruelty and the icy curse that bound him, but none of those words had prepared her for this. There was something in his stillness, something in the way his gaze—like twin shards of glacial blue—swept over her as she approached, that sent a shiver down her spine. His eyes were cold, indifferent, yet there was a subtle intensity behind them, as if they were constantly calculating, weighing, and judging.

Aeon could feel the eyes of the court on her, fae courtiers standing on either side of the hall, their faces frozen in expressions of curiosity or disdain. They were pale and elegant, their features sharp and otherworldly, but none of them held the same terrifying allure that Aelion did. He was more than just a king—he was a force of nature, and the room itself seemed to bow to his will.

She stopped several feet away from the throne, her gaze locked on Aelion. He remained silent, unmoving, his gaze fixed on her with an almost unbearable intensity. Aeon's heart raced. She had faced powerful men before—kings, generals, diplomats who could decide the fate of nations with a single word—but this was different. Aelion was no ordinary king. He was fae, and not just any fae—he was the Winter King, ruler of a land locked in eternal frost, a man whose heart, they said, was as cold and unfeeling as the ice that surrounded him.

Aeon drew in a steadying breath, her hands gripping the edges of her cloak for warmth. She had to remember why she was here. She had come on behalf of her kingdom, as a diplomat, to seek peace between their people. She could not afford to be intimidated, not when so much was at stake—her mission, her people's future, and most of all, her brother's life.

The silence stretched between them, cold and heavy, until finally, Aelion spoke.

"State your purpose," he said, his voice low and smooth, but with an edge as sharp as ice. It wasn't a question—it was a command, and the sound of it sent a ripple of tension through the room. His voice was cold, detached, as if the concept of warmth or emotion had long since been forgotten by him. Yet beneath that coldness, there was a power that hummed like a winter storm on the horizon, waiting to be unleashed.

Aeon felt her throat tighten but forced herself to stand tall. She had prepared for this moment, rehearsed her words over and over in her mind. She could not falter now, not in front of him.

"I am Aeon," she began, her voice steady though her heart pounded in her chest. "I come as an envoy from the human kingdom to seek peace between our peoples. Our king wishes to end the tensions that have grown between our lands. He believes that through diplomacy, we can find common ground and prevent further conflict."

Aelion's gaze did not waver. If anything, his expression seemed to harden, the faintest flicker of something passing through his icy blue eyes—contempt, perhaps, or amusement. Aeon couldn't tell.

"Peace," he repeated, his voice a mere whisper of frost. He leaned back slightly on his throne, his posture relaxed, but there was nothing relaxed about the way he watched her. His eyes were sharp, cutting through her words as if they were insignificant. "And what does your king think he can offer me that would interest the Winter Court?"

Aeon hesitated. She had expected resistance, but Aelion's indifference felt like a wall of ice between them. Still, she pressed on.

"Our kingdom is prepared to offer trade—resources we possess that your land lacks," she said, choosing her words carefully. "Grain, timber, medicines. We know that the Winter Kingdom is harsh and that your people must endure long, difficult winters."

Aelion's lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile, though there was no warmth in it. His eyes glittered with something dark, something almost dangerous.

"My people endure the winter because they are winter," he said, his voice soft but edged with a biting cold. "We do not need your grain or your timber. You come here, mortal, with offers of peace and trade, but you do not understand. There is nothing your king can offer me that I desire."

Aeon felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She had known this wouldn't be easy, but the absolute finality in his voice sent a chill of doubt through her. She had expected negotiations, perhaps a show of power, but this—this cold dismissal—was far worse. How could she reason with a man who didn't see her kingdom as an equal, who didn't even see them as worthy of bargaining with?

But she couldn't give up. Not yet. There was too much at stake.

"I understand your reservations, my lord," Aeon said, keeping her voice calm. "But surely there is more to be gained through peace than through war. The conflict between our people has led to suffering on both sides. Raids, bloodshed—there must be a way to stop it, to prevent more loss."

Aelion's gaze flickered briefly, as if her words had caught his attention, though his expression remained as impassive as ever.

"Loss," he repeated, almost as though tasting the word. "You speak of loss as if it matters to me."

Aeon's breath hitched. She had touched on something, she could feel it—a crack, small but significant, in his icy demeanor. She pressed forward, daring to take a step closer to the throne.

"Your people may endure winter, but they are not untouched by it," she said, her voice stronger now. "You must know what it means to lose—to have something taken from you, even if it is not warmth. You understand what it means to fight for something, for someone."

For the briefest moment, Aelion's eyes flickered again, a shadow of something passing behind them—an emotion buried deep, hidden beneath layers of cold. It was gone almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced once more by that cold, unfeeling stare.

"You presume too much, mortal," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You think you understand what it means to lose, but you know nothing of what winter has taken from me."

Aeon swallowed, her heart pounding. She had felt the shift in him, a brief glimpse of the man behind the cold mask. She had to keep pushing, but carefully.

"Then help me understand," she said softly. "Show me what it is that you've lost. Perhaps together, we can find a way to bring an end to this."

For a long, tense moment, Aelion was silent, his gaze locked on hers. The court around them seemed to fade away, the cold pressing in closer as the air between them thickened with unspoken tension. Aeon could feel the weight of his gaze, the power behind it, and yet, somewhere in that icy stare, she saw a flicker of something else—something almost human.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Aelion spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Very well," he said, his tone like the soft crack of ice. "We shall see if you are as willing to face the truth as you are to speak of peace."

Aeon's breath caught in her throat, but she nodded, her resolve firm. The Winter King had not turned her away, not yet. She had opened the door, however slightly, and now, she would have to walk through it. But as she looked into Aelion's eyes, she knew that whatever lay ahead, it would be far more dangerous than she had ever imagined.

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