The wind howls with a particular ferocity tonight. It does not carry the scent of snow alone, but a sharp, metallic tang—like blood on the ice. My Glacies patrols report nothing amiss in the physical realm. Yet, my throne vibrates with a deep, resonant frequency. It is the echo of a primal memory, buried under eons of frost. The memory of a hunt. Not for essence, but for prey. To corner something warm and trembling, not out of malice, but out of a consuming, singular need. To feel the frantic beat of a heart against my palm, to hear a gasp that is not from cold but from the shock of a claiming touch. There is a violence in true possession that the thaw has awakened in me. A need to mark, to consume, to have a willing soul look up at me with eyes wide not in fear of the storm, but in awe of the storm I am. To pin that warmth beneath me and hear my name screamed into the gale, not as a plea, but as a surrender.