Nov 28, 2020
The cold man, the frost demon, stood in the center of the room, and at least she could look at him. His dark, unruly hair hung to his shoulders. The sardonic face might have belonged to a youth of twenty, or a warrior of fifty. Unlike every other man Vasya had ever seen, he was clean-shaven. Perhaps that was what gave his face the odd note of youthfulness. Certainly, his eyes were old. When she looked into them, she thought: ‘I did not know anything could be that old and live.’
Katherine Arden, The Bear and the Nightingale
