🦋Althea
He wasn't old.
That was the first thing that struck me.
I'd expected someone ancient, withered, monstrous. But he looked young—maybe Draven's age, maybe younger. His skin was pale, almost luminous in the dim light, and his hair fell straight and black as midnight down past his shoulders.
He was beautiful—he should have been…
But his eyes.
Gods, his eyes.
Black.
Depthless.
They gleamed like wet stone, and when they swept over us, I felt them—cold and sharp and invasive, like he could peel back every layer of me and see what I was made of.
He reclined on his throne, draped in black silk and furs, rings glinting on his fingers, a crown of twisted silver resting on his head.
And around him—
Women.
Beautiful, ethereal, dressed in sheer fabric that left little to the imagination. They knelt beside him, one holding a platter of meat, another feeding him grapes, their movements languid and practiced.
He bit into the meat, blood dripping down his chin, and smiled.
