Frostbound Siren



In the endless white of the Frost Wastes, she walks where no living thing should. Pale blue skin drinks the cold, silver hair dances with the wind, and glowing eyes cut through the blizzard like twin stars.
Her fur coat hangs open, a defiant flash of color against the ice, as if the winter itself has claimed her—and she has claimed it right back.
They say those who meet her gaze never feel warm again. Some call it a curse. She calls it freedom.