The Frost Chamber existed in a state of perpetual twilight. Blue-white crystals lined the walls, their gentle luminescence providing the only illumination in the perfectly circular room. The temperature hovered just above freezing—cold enough to slow biological processes, but not so cold as to damage living tissue. It was a place of preservation rather than healing, designed to maintain rather than repair.
For Roman Lionhart, standing at the chamber's edge felt uncomfortably like keeping vigil over a tomb.
His grandson lay motionless upon the raised platform at the room's center, surrounded by runes of such antiquity that even Roman, with all his knowledge, could decipher only a fraction of their meaning. Klaus's silver hair had been carefully arranged around his face, which remained as expressionless as carved marble. Only the faint rise and fall of his chest confirmed that life persisted.
"The Elder Sages have arrived, Father."
