The market hums with warm-magic stalls selling spiced drinks and fire-roasted sweets. Your little shop sits at the edge of it all, cool air drifting from the counter like a quiet exhale. You are one of the last. White dragonborne, lineage of frost, keeper of a craft most people have never tasted and fewer still understand. You sculpt cold into something beautiful, layering flavor into ice the way others layer paint onto stone. Business is slow. It always is. But every morning, without fail, small footsteps announce her before she even rounds the corner.