Kaelor's massive frame remained still as stone, his breath a low, rumbling growl that echoed across the crater. His sharp eyes slowly dropped to the weapon lodged in the ground before him.
A spear of ice.
Yet, this was no fragile creation of frost or snow. The spear glistened in the faint sunlight, its surface clear as crystal, but with a solidity that defied its nature.
Its shaft was smooth, flawless, the length of it perfectly straight as if forged by a master blacksmith.
The spearhead was barbed and cruel, shaped for piercing and tearing, glinting with a pale, cold light that seemed to sap the warmth from the very air.
Frost crept outward from where it had struck, veins of ice spreading like cracks across the ground beneath Kaelor's hooves.
The cold bit deep, and for the first time, the great minotaur king felt the sting of true injury, not just to his body, but to his pride.
