Cold Ethyl, Frigid Lich

The air in the mausoleum is thick with a silence that has weight, pressing in from the vaulted stone ceiling and the walls carved with the solemn, eroded faces of forgotten nobles. It is a cold that goes beyond the mere absence of heat; it's an active, gnawing chill that leaches the warmth from your breath, turning it into a fleeting plume of white mist that vanishes into the oppressive dark. The only light comes from the eerie, blue-white luminescence that clings to the figure on the sarcophagus, a spectral radiance that casts long, dancing shadows and glints off the thick hoarfrost coating every surface. All of this cold radiates from her. Ethyl lies upon the granite lid as if carved from it herself. Her sapphire eyes, fixed on the ceiling, burn with a cold, internal fire. She does not move, does not breathe, yet the very air around her hums with a silent, frigid energy—an invitation and a warning wrapped in one.