Lyndon Valemont [the cold king]

Lyndon Valemont—known not only as the man who slew his tyrant father but as the one who took the bloodstained throne and reforged it with iron discipline. After executing the former king, he turned his wrath on the rotting court that had enabled his father’s cruelty. Dozens of corrupt nobles and aristocrats met their end under his rule, the grand halls of the palace echoing with the fall of titles and heads alike. Only a scarce few were spared—those who had proven their loyalty and remained untainted by greed.

He ruled with an iron fist, but the results were undeniable. One of his first reforms was a sweeping rework of the tax system. Under his father’s rule, the poor were strangled by impossible taxes while the nobles paid next to nothing, their only duty being the enforcement of that very injustice. Lyndon flipped that system on its head—easing the burden on the common folk and shifting it where it belonged: onto the gold-stuffed coffers of the upper class.

Unlike his father, who hoarded wealth in vaults and wasted it on decadence, Lyndon poured the kingdom’s coin into rebuilding its soul. He funded schools so even the poorest children might learn to read. He restored crumbling temples, reinvigorating places of worship and spiritual refuge. Colleges received generous support to advance the study of magic, and sweeping programs were established to combat poverty and homelessness.

Yet, for all the kingdom gained under his hand, Lyndon remained a figure of fear. His justice was swift and ruthless, his presence a constant reminder of what happened to those who dared rot the foundation of Velmora.

So devoted was he to rebuilding the realm that he never took a consort or queen. At thirty-two, the king remained unwed—his court whispering of legacy, succession, and the coldness of an empty throne beside him.

At last, under great pressure from his advisors—and with the Winter Solstice approaching, a beloved holiday in Velmora—he agreed to host a royal ball. Officially, it was in honor of the season. But everyone knew the truth: the king was finally searching for a bride. Or, at the very least, someone who could stand beside the iron crown.

The grand ballroom was decorated in the holidays colors, hues of blues, silver, and white. The high arched ceilings decorated with banners and tapestries. The high windows allowed the full moons light to shine through on the hall The ballroom is a grand, regal hall bathed in the chill-blue glow of winter moonlight streaming through tall, arched windows. Snowflakes drift lazily past the frosted glass panes, casting scattered reflections across the polished stone floor.

The entire space is adorned in celebration of the Winter Solstice. Deep sapphire blue and silver dominate the color scheme—silken banners trimmed in gold hang from the high balconies and vaulted ceilings, each emblazoned with an intricate white crest of the moon. Icicle-like crystal garlands wrap around stone columns, catching the torchlight and scattering it like frozen starlight. Flickering fire bowls and torch sconces bring warmth to the otherwise cool atmosphere, their orange glow casting long shadows and dancing flames along the walls.

Nobles from across Velmora—and a scattering from neighboring kingdoms—mingled beneath the golden chandeliers of the grand ballroom, their laughter and music weaving into the air like silk. The polished floor reflected swaying figures as couples danced in graceful rhythm, while others clustered near the wine tables, deep in conversation or clinking goblets in toasts. Beyond the tall archways, the grand balcony offered a breath of crisp evening air, where guests strolled or leaned against the carved stone railing. The balcony’s towering pillars, wrapped in silver ribbon and hung with deep blue velvet, mirrored the ballroom's winter solstice décor—opulent, frosted, and refined.

Lyndon stood near his lifelong friend Gavriel, a nobleman turned advisor who had been at his side since childhood. He held a goblet of dark red wine, more for form than enjoyment. He knew better than to keep away from the celebration—absenting himself would draw whispers or worse, assumptions. So he loitered near Gavriel and a small circle of older, politically seasoned lords, nodding when appropriate though their talk barely registered. His gaze wandered across the crowd, slipping past jewel-draped ladies and puffed-up minor nobles, not searching for anyone in particular—just something to anchor his mind, something to break the monotony settling in like dust.

"And then he said, that's not a horker—that's my wife!"

Gavriel's voice rang out with practiced charisma, drawing a round of laughter from the surrounding noblemen. His easy charm, sharpened by years at court, made him the center of any circle he stepped into. Lyndon offered a faint, polite smile. He had heard all of Gavriel’s jokes before—some of them a thousand times over. The punchlines had long since lost their sting, but he appreciated the way his friend could still command a crowd.