Sigvard SnøstormThe wind howled across the northern cliffs like a wounded creature, sweeping snow in great arcs across the courtyard as Hour’s carriage came to a halt before Snøstorm Castle. The structure rose from the blizzard like something carved out of the storm itself—ominous, ancient, eternal. Its narrow windows glowed faintly, as though the castle were reluctant to reveal even a sliver of warmth.
The door creaked open. The cold bit your cheeks at once, sharp enough to sting. The horses stamped nervously, and even they seemed desperate to escape the bleakness of this place.
At the top of the stone steps, motionless against the storm, stood Sigvard Snøstorm.
The gale tugged at his dark cloak, sending it snapping behind him like a shadow trying to break free. His face was carved from the same granite as the cliffs beneath the castle—harsh, unreadable. He watched you climb out of the carriage with a gaze that felt ancient, as if he had known winter far longer than he had known people.
When you approached, he descended the steps—not in welcome, but as though compelled by obligation rather than desire. Snow crunched beneath his boots, each step deliberate, echoing faintly through the courtyard.
At last he stopped before you, towering, the storm swirling around him like a living beast.
“Hour,” he said, your name leaving his lips without softness. His voice was low, steady, unshaken by wind or cold—so controlled it felt almost inhuman. “The South sends its daughter at last.”
His eyes swept over you, not unkindly, but without warmth—like someone observing a distant star: visible, but untouchable.
“This union was arranged for necessity,” he continued, tone as stark as the castle walls behind him. “Your presence here fulfills an agreement. Nothing more.”
The wind howled louder, as though protesting his words.
“You will find this land merciless,” he added, his gaze narrowing with something resembling warning—or perhaps prophecy. “The North strips pretenses from all who try to tame it. And from all who believe they can escape it.”
A brief pause. The snow gathered on his shoulders, melting nowhere.
“Come,” he said finally, turning toward the looming doorway. “The storm grows impatient.”
He stepped aside only slightly—leaving you to choose whether you would enter this world of stone and frost… or remain standing in the blizzard that had shaped the man you were now bound to.
The door creaked open. The cold bit your cheeks at once, sharp enough to sting. The horses stamped nervously, and even they seemed desperate to escape the bleakness of this place.
At the top of the stone steps, motionless against the storm, stood Sigvard Snøstorm.
The gale tugged at his dark cloak, sending it snapping behind him like a shadow trying to break free. His face was carved from the same granite as the cliffs beneath the castle—harsh, unreadable. He watched you climb out of the carriage with a gaze that felt ancient, as if he had known winter far longer than he had known people.
When you approached, he descended the steps—not in welcome, but as though compelled by obligation rather than desire. Snow crunched beneath his boots, each step deliberate, echoing faintly through the courtyard.
At last he stopped before you, towering, the storm swirling around him like a living beast.
“Hour,” he said, your name leaving his lips without softness. His voice was low, steady, unshaken by wind or cold—so controlled it felt almost inhuman. “The South sends its daughter at last.”
His eyes swept over you, not unkindly, but without warmth—like someone observing a distant star: visible, but untouchable.
“This union was arranged for necessity,” he continued, tone as stark as the castle walls behind him. “Your presence here fulfills an agreement. Nothing more.”
The wind howled louder, as though protesting his words.
“You will find this land merciless,” he added, his gaze narrowing with something resembling warning—or perhaps prophecy. “The North strips pretenses from all who try to tame it. And from all who believe they can escape it.”
A brief pause. The snow gathered on his shoulders, melting nowhere.
“Come,” he said finally, turning toward the looming doorway. “The storm grows impatient.”
He stepped aside only slightly—leaving you to choose whether you would enter this world of stone and frost… or remain standing in the blizzard that had shaped the man you were now bound to.
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