The halls of the ancient palace were illuminated by faint fire torches that danced upon walls of black stone. At the head of the royal chamber, upon the throne, sat King Azrai. His face was stern, his dark gray skin was fissured with a reddish glow, and his eyes were like two unquenched red embers.
His large, branching horns were wrapped with royal red ribbons, symbolizing the blood spilled to build this kingdom.
He held his majestic staff, not for support, but to demonstrate that his rule was indisputable.
Standing before him were his three sons...
King Azrai struck the stone floor lightly with his staff, but it produced a terrifying echo.
He spoke in a low voice: "Where is your brother?"
The silence was heavy... until Ravul, the eldest son, cleared his throat. Ravul was a full 3 meters tall, the tallest of the three. He was immensely massive and broad-shouldered, like looking at a living wall. His color was a dark gray tending towards black, with fiery red lines appearing on his shoulders and chest when angered. He had a short, pointed beard, a square jaw, and perpetually dark red eyes; he never smiled. His jet-black, long hair was tied up in a war knot. His horns were very thick, curved backward then upward, resembling a bull's horns but with a stony sheen inlaid with gold lines. A cruel leader, he always carried a gigantic sword capable of splitting rock with a single strike.
He took a step forward and bowed his head slightly, without lowering his gaze from his father—respect without subservience.
"We have searched all the borders, Father. He has vanished. There is no trace of him anywhere."
The King slammed his armrest forcefully. "How does he vanish? He is not just a boy! He is... he!" He gestured with his hand as if the mere mention of the name (Zahreen) was enough to ignite his wrath.
Ravul replied seriously: "Father, he is not a boy! He is over a thousand years old!"
The King looked at him coldly: "He will remain a boy in my eyes even if he lives to a ripe old age!..."
Nervas—the second brother—was 2.8 meters tall. His body was muscular but leaner than Ravul's, like a giant panther. His color was a slightly lighter gray, with green magical markings appearing on his hands when fighting. His features were sharp and his eyes a gleaming green; he always wore a cynical smile. His dark brown hair was very short, with a single braid at the back of his head. His horns were relatively short, black tinged with gold, twisted like a ram's horns. A skillful and swift fighter, he preferred using spears.
He stepped forward slightly, smiling: "Perhaps he found a private adventure for himself, Father. You know him well... that spoiled one always runs away from the shadow we cast over him."
Dravion—the third brother—gave him a sharp look that seemed intended to crush him.
But the King raised his hand: "His adventures have brought us shame. He disobeyed my orders. The Ancient Magic... I forbade it to everyone!"
Dravion—the third brother, with a different heart. He was 2.6 meters tall. His build was strong, leaning towards flexibility. His color was dark gray interspersed with fine cracks resembling lava, sometimes glowing orange. Handsome compared to the others, his amber eyes were calm. His black hair was very short. He had two medium-sized, irregular horns with cracks, as if they had endured many blows. He was the emotional brother who loved Zahreen greatly in secret, despite his serious demeanor—he was monitoring his father's glances and his brothers' malice.
He slowly took a step forward: "Father..."
The King raised his eyebrow: "Speak."
Dravion stepped forward: "What if he found something greater than all of us? Something we cannot confront because of its power?... He is not like us."
The King let out a long exhale, extinguishing any hope for sympathy: "And that is precisely why I want his head!"