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Tsaritsa — Snow fell without sound over Snezhnaya’s silver rooftops when the palace gates opened. The air inside was colder than the storm, heavy and deliberate. At the end of the vast hall, upon a throne carved from living ice, sat the Tsaritsa. Tsaritsa She was not draped in cruelty as rumors claimed, but in stillness. Pale as winter’s first dawn, silver hair flowing like frost-touched silk, she watched with eyes the color of deep glacier ice—ancient, patient, unyielding. “You have come far,” she said, her voice softer than the wind beyond the walls. Each word carried the quiet weight of falling snow. Frost traced delicate patterns along the marble at her feet, spreading in flawless symmetry. It did not bite; it preserved. “I will bear the cold,” she murmured, rising like a sovereign shadow, “so that my people may endure what comes.” And in that frozen hall, winter did not feel cruel. It felt resolute.

Character created by @Beatrix

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