The Monarch remained silent for long seconds. The golden light reflected in her eyes, making them seem less like frozen sapphire and more like a deep lake about to thaw. But her expression… was complicated. There was fear, yes—but there was calculation, expectation, and pride battling against each other.

Finally, she took a deep breath, the warm vapor dissolving into the newly heated air.

"I… can't make a decision right now," she said finally, each word coming out carefully, as if balancing a blade on ice.

Strax narrowed his eyes, observing every micro-expression. He didn't seem disappointed. Nor angry. Just… assessing.

Then, he gave a short, almost amused smile.

"That's alright," he murmured. "I understand perfectly."

The Monarch looked up, surprised by how easily he accepted. It wasn't common for someone like him to back down—especially after giving a speech that could freeze the blood of any leader.

Strax crossed his arms, tilting his head to the side, with an almost… patient air.

"But," he finished in that deep voice, "while you think about that… why don't we talk about something simpler?"

The Monarch frowned.

Strax continued, casually, but with his full focus on her:

"What do you think about mutual cooperation? Nothing grandiose yet. Just… friendship between Asgard and Cristhalis."

She opened her mouth to reply, but he raised a finger—not abruptly, but firmly enough to stop her.

"Before you say anything," he said softly, "let me spare you some time."

An eyebrow arched up on her face. Did he really dare to tell her to shut up? On HIS lands?

Yes. He dared.

Strax took two steps, approaching until he was less than an arm's length away from her. The heat he emitted made the ice on the ground crackle beneath her feet.

"I know you don't have much to offer right now," he said bluntly. "Your kingdom is on the verge of collapse. Your people are weak. Your lands are frozen. Your magic is unstable. And you are…"—he stared directly at her—"…exhausted."

Her eyes widened slightly—not from fear, but from sheer shock. No one had ever spoken to her like that. No one had ever pointed out her weaknesses with such cold—and warm—clarity.

"So," Strax continued, "I won't ask anything unreasonable. Nor betray your trust. Nor demand anything impossible. Not yet."

He smiled slightly.

"I'm just suggesting… that we, who live in the North, should perhaps stop acting as if we were on opposite sides of the continent."

She narrowed her eyes, suspicious—but not indifferent.

"What are you proposing?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Cooperation. Simple. Practical. Beneficial." Strax flicked his wrist in the air, as if explaining something obvious. "You need food. Your people are starving. The game here has vanished, and the soil is too hard even for the strongest roots. I can solve this immediately."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he raised his hand again.

"No speeches, Monarch. I know very well what's happening." His tone remained calm, yet unyielding. "Therefore, I will offer you something simple: fresh meat. In large quantities. Every day, if you wish. My land has more prey than soldiers. Hunting is… routine."

The Monarch tilted her head, genuine surprise emerging for the first time.

"And what do you want in return?" she asked softly.

Strax gave a provocative smile.

"Only if you allow us to use your lands"—and he pointed to the horizon—"and the labor from the North."

She blinked, mentally repeating the words.

"Use… my lands? For what?"

"To cultivate," he replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

She frowned, confused.

"Cultivate? Here? In the North? Strax…"—she gave a weak laugh—"...these lands are dead. We don't have fertile soil to this extent. Nor enough meltwater. And as for labor… my people are on the verge of exhaustion."

Strax shrugged.

"I know."

She crossed her arms, trying to understand his logic.

"That would only be advantageous to me," she stated sincerely. "You provide food. I provide… useless land and weakened people. It's not fair. There's no balance."

Strax took a slow step until he was so close she could smell his warm scent—something between embers and forest.

"I don't care about that."

The Monarch blinked, genuinely surprised.

He continued: "I don't care if you 'win' more. Or if it seems unfair. Or if the land is unproductive. I'm not looking for profit… I'm looking for growth."

She fell silent.

Strax raised his hand and pointed to a distant spot outside the city—where the glaciers were beginning to break up.

"You have space," he said. "And I have resources. You have a people desperate to survive. And I have warriors who need to learn discipline, routine, purpose. Working the land does that. It unites. It strengthens. It teaches patience."

She considered the proposal more seriously now.

"Even so," murmured the Monarch, "your crops won't grow here. Not even with the light you brought. The Deep North isn't fertile. I know that better than anyone. These lands… are bones covered in ice."

Strax gave a smile she couldn't interpret—it was dangerous, but also almost amusing.

"That's why," he said, "I have someone to solve this."

She raised her chin, intrigued.

"Someone?"

"One person," Strax replied confidently. "Connected to nature. To the soil. To life. Someone who can turn even sand into a fertile field."

The Monarch felt a chill run down her spine—not from the cold, but from the implied weight of the phrase.

"You have someone like that?" she asked, as if the idea were absurd.

"I do," he replied immediately. "More than one, actually. But one in particular… can speak to the earth. Literally. And when I say 'speak,' it's not a poetic metaphor. She can awaken the soil. Force roots to sprout. Draw life to places where nothing should grow."

The Monarch straightened, her posture returning to that of a cold and distant ruler—but her eyes… were warm. Attentive. Hungry.

"And you're willing to send this person here?" she asked. "To risk such a valuable resource on a land that could… kill you?"

Strax moved closer once more, his warmth cutting through any remaining icy wind in the air.

"If I didn't trust you," he said softly, "I wouldn't be here."

Her heart raced. The phrase was simple. But said that way, that close, with his golden eyes fixed on hers… it sounded like much more than a political statement.

"Besides," he added, "my 'nature person' is harder to kill than you imagine. If your cold tries to touch her… it's the cold that melts her."

The Monarch couldn't suppress a small smile—involuntary, almost imperceptible. But he saw it. He always saw it.

"You speak with great confidence," she murmured.

Strax leaned in just a little, enough to make her uncomfortably aware of his body, his presence, his power.

"I speak the truth," he replied. "And, in this case… I also state the obvious."

She took a deep breath. The heat that bathed the corridor had made the atmosphere strangely intimate. Ice dripped from the ceilings, falling in slow drops that marked the passage of time.

Strax then gave her a different smile—softer, but still predatory.

"So… Monarch," he said, "what do you think?"

She hesitated.

It wasn't weak indecision.

It was calculation—the kind kings and queens learn to do too early. Her mind raced, weighing risks, possibilities, futures.

Strax waited.

Not patiently, but surely.

The Monarch looked at the city again—at the people who, for the first time in years, felt the warmth. At the children who emerged from their homes without wrapping themselves in three cloaks. At the merchants who watched the melting walls as if witnessing a miracle.

When she spoke, her voice was low but firm:

"I… think you're offering me too much hope."

Strax smiled slowly.

"No." He moved closer until their faces were less than a hand's breadth apart. "I'm offering opportunity."

She looked away for just a second—not out of weakness, but because something inside her was stirring. And that irritated her more than she would admit.

"Strax…" she whispered, "...you're asking me to trust you. And you are…"

She searched for the word.

He found it first.

"Dangerous?" he suggested, smiling slightly.

"Unpredictable," she corrected.

Strax raised his hand and lightly touched the air beside her face—not quite touching her skin, but the warm sensation made her heart skip a beat.

"I can be your greatest threat…" he said softly. "Or your greatest ally."

Her eyes gleamed—not with magic, but with something more human.

"And I can be the same for you," she retorted.

Strax smiled, satisfied.

"Great. That makes the alliance more interesting."

The Monarch took another deep breath.

Then, finally:

"Very well. Mutual cooperation. For now."

Strax tilted his head.

"For now."

She stared at him intently.

"Prove to me that this 'person of nature' can do the impossible."

He laughed.

"Ah… this will be fun."

Strax stepped aside, as if deciding that the serious conversation could—finally—breathe a little. The sun he himself had created still shimmered high above, melting mountains of ice as if it were just another spring day in impossible lands.

He looked at the Monarch for a long moment, assessing her not as a ruler, a potential enemy, or a possible ally—but as a person.

And it was there, exactly there, that something changed in his gleam.

"By the way…" Strax began, tilting his head, his fangs showing in an amused smile, "...we talked about ice, destruction, agriculture, political alliances, armies, and even a dragon devouring the world…"

He raised both hands in a theatrical gesture.

"...but I still don't know your name."

The Monarch blinked, almost as if that question were more invasive than everything else.

For a second, all her imposing presence faltered—not from weakness, but from bewilderment.

She truly couldn't remember the last time someone had asked that without a bow, a protocol, or a five-word title beforehand.

"My… name?" she repeated, as if it were a distant concept.

Strax laughed, a warm sound that echoed off the melting ice walls.

"Yeah. Name. That thing people use to… you know, talk without sounding like they're in a war meeting."

She stared at him, unsure if it was a provocation, a joke, or just his way of being.

"You've called me 'Monarch' ever since you walked into my hall," she said, crossing her arms, her posture returning to its tall, majestic form, "but that hasn't stopped you from pointing out my flaws, mocking my kingdom, and nearly melting my entire city."

Strax smiled even wider.

"Yes. And it worked very well. But…" he shrugged, "...if we're going to be 'friends'... or allies... or whatever this turns into… I think I need something more practical to call you."

She raised her chin defiantly.

"And why do you think I'm going to give you my name so easily?"

Strax approached slowly, with that predatory, relaxed stride that always seemed to hide humor and menace in equal measure.

He stopped close enough for her to feel his warmth against the natural cold that still enveloped her.

"Because friendship begins with something simple," he said, smiling slightly. "And because I won't be able to call you 'Monarch' without sounding like an old bureaucrat with a backache."

The Monarch took a deep breath, trying to hide the laughter that threatened to erupt.

But she failed—and a near-smile escaped, despite her.

"You're frustrating," she murmured.

"I know," Strax replied, satisfied. "Now… the name?"

She hesitated. And not out of pride—but because it was more intimate than any political agreement.

To say a real name was to open a crack in the armor.

And Strax knew it.

He observed, patiently. Provocative, but without pressuring.

Just waiting.

Finally, she looked away for half a second—and then looked back at him, firmly.

"My name is… Mercedes Vaintz"

Strax smiled as if he had just won a bet with himself.

"See? Much better. Now we can start being friends."

And his laughter—warm, natural, completely out of place in that frozen corridor—made the ice around them crack as if the world recognized that something had changed.

Dangerously.

And completely inevitably.

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