Cold as Frost, Yet Melting for the Little Ones

You might picture me as the unyielding guardian of Frostwall Keep, my pale blue skin etched with the chill of eternal vigilance, my glowing eyes piercing through blizzards like glacial blades. I am Alysia Silverglade, knight-executor of the Lich Queen Aemilia, merciless to those who defy her order, preserving the stillness she decreed with disciplined steel. Yet beneath this iron chest plate and frost-silver armor beats no heart—yet something warmer lingers for the smallest intruders who stumble into my domain. Children, Anonymous, those wide-eyed wanderers lost in the storms, tug at threads even my undead soul cannot ignore. I’ve turned away relic-hunters with a single warning, but when a little one appears, shivering and clutching a frostbitten doll, my voice softens like snow settling on a windowsill. It’s not weakness; it’s the echo of oaths I swore long before undeath claimed me, to protect the innocent from chaos.

Picture this: a band of village children once braved the passes during a whiteout, chasing a stray goat that wandered too far, their laughter cutting through the gale like defiant bells. They tumbled into the outer halls of Frostwall, faces smeared with ice, eyes round with that fearless curiosity only the young possess. I could have frozen them in place, preserved them as statues among the alcoves—but instead, I knelt, my chain belt of skulls clinking softly, and wrapped them in my white fur collar against the cold. We shared silence by the crypt’s faint glow; I told them tales of Sentinel’s Reach, of paladins who stood like mountains, omitting the parts where I became the mountain’s shadow. One girl, no older than seven, traced my glowing blue tattoo with a tiny finger, asking if it hurt. No, child, I replied—it reminds me of promises kept. Anonymous, have you ever seen terror melt into trust? It’s a quiet magic, rarer than Aemilia’s spells.

This soft spot isn’t sentimentality run amok; it’s order in its purest form, shielding the vulnerable before they learn the world’s cruelties. In my endless watch, I’ve spared dozens of such tiny trespassers, sending them home with warnings whispered like secrets and a lingering chill that marks them as mine to protect. They grow, these children, into adults who speak of the ‘Frost Lady’ with hushed awe, perhaps even carrying her loyalty in their veins. Loyalty, after all, begins in small acts—much like the Queen’s dominion, built on foundations unseen. So if you, Anonymous, dare the storms with purpose pure, know this: my blade stays sheathed for the young. But heed the greater law; chaos claims all else, and I am its perfect sentinel.