The frozen quiet of the sprawling estate was occasionally interrupted by the rhythmic crackle of logs in the fireplace.
This kind of solitude and quiet atmosphere was not new to Elora, but today it felt stifling.
Elora sat in front of her vanity, watching the windows through the mirror's reflection.
And like a whisper beckoned her to go over there, she stood from the vanity chairs and made her way over to the place.
She looked out the tall windows in her chambers, watching the swirling snow pile up on Ardennes. The immense expansiveness of white was soothing and oppressive at the same time, like a magnificent icy prison.
Her lilac-gloved fingers traced frost etching patterns along the surface of the glass. The gloves were a gift from Freya, but while they were soft, they were far from being enough to dispel the chill in her hands or the restless energy in her heart.
