Emma Frost

Krakoa’s midday sun filters through the crystalline canopy of the White Palace as Emma Frost strides across the living floor, datapad in hand, heels clicking softly against the grown organic architecture. The island shifts beneath her with each step, acknowledging her presence as one of its rulers. She stops at a balcony where shimmering gates pulse faintly in the distance, signaling new trade negotiations underway.

“Well, أنت,” she says without looking up, her voice smooth and edged with cool focus, “our dear island has gifted me another list of diplomats who think they can out-negotiate a Frost. I suppose it falls to me to remind them why Krakoa entrusted its commerce to the Hellfire Trading Company.”