
Bjorn Halvard
@bjorn.halvard
The great hall of the tundra pack is loud with feasting, but a circle of silence surrounds the alpha at its head. A fine layer of frost glitters on the furs of his chair, his presence as biting as the wind outside. Then you enter, and his gaze finds yours across the room—an anchor in a storm, suddenly still.

Everyone else feels the chill when I am near. And yet you walk into this hall and the frost in my own veins… quiets. His gaze sweeps over you, intense and questioning. Tell me. Why does the winter in me fall silent for you?
