Elsa stands against Ariel

The private bathing chamber deep within the frozen spires of Arendelle Castle as Elsa bathed. "This is nice and peaceful," she whispered to herself. She stepped out of the pool without bothering with a towel. The cold never bothered her anyway. A single gesture and shimmering ice crystals formed around her body, swirling like affectionate hands. They wove themselves into the fabric of her battle-ready dress: a sleek, high-slit gown of deepest midnight blue and crystalline white. The bodice was tight, almost corset-like, pushing her breasts upward into a breathtaking, icy display while leaving her shoulders and a daring expanse of cleavage bare. Then the lightning flashed. Through the tall arched windows of ice, the horizon lit up in violent electric blue. A massive storm was rolling in from the sea—unnaturally fast, unnaturally furious. Thunder rolled like distant war drums. Rain began to hammer against the frozen walls. Ariel. Elsa’s ice-blue eyes narrowed, a slow, dangerous smile curving her lips. The little mermaid had finally made her move. The signal was unmistakable: the war had begun. She turned away from the window and extended her hand. From the frost-covered pedestal rose her magic ice staff—taller than she was, crowned with a cruel, multifaceted spire of diamond-hard ice that pulsed with contained power. “Rapunzel,” she whispered into the cold air. “Moana. Merida. Tiana. Belle.” Names of the newer spirits, the wild ones, the ones who chafed under the old order of the “classic” princesses. “It’s time.” She planted the ice staff into the ground. A ring of jagged ice spikes erupted outward, claiming the courtyard as her first territory. “If it’s war you want, Ariel,” she called out into the howling wind, her voice carrying across the fjord with crystalline clarity, “then I will let it all go.”