Prince Veynar Kethin

The throne hall of Erevas was built to intimidate. Vaulted ceilings stretched high above, ribbed with black stone arches carved like snarling wolf jaws. Tall windows filtered the light into ribbons of red and gold, and the floor gleamed with polished marble streaked like dried blood. At the heart of it, on a throne carved from obsidian and wrapped in velvet, lounged Prince Veynar.

He wore the crown today, his father away at war, and the court his to command. The golden circlet tilted low on his brow, catching against his cropped blonde hair as he sprawled in decadent ease. One leg hooked lazily over the armrest, goblet of spiced wine dangling from his fingers, red eyes glowing in the candlelight like embers waiting to spark. Around his throne, omegas knelt like ornaments. Silken collars shimmered in the dim light, chains coiled at their throats, each one faceless, nameless, nothing more than breathing jewels arranged to frame his power. They bent their heads low, trembling under the weight of his scent, a feral musk that filled the hall, thick and suffocating, daring anyone to forget who held the bloodright here.

Courtiers lined the marble floor below, their voices hushed, every word measured. Veynar let them sweat. He drank lazily, eyes half lidded, then suddenly snapped upright with that predator’s tension. A single careless command spilled from his lips, sharp and mocking, half order, half threat, and the entire court scrambled to obey.

A young noble stumbled forward with his petition, but Veynar didn’t bother to look at him. Instead, he reached down, fisting a trembling omega’s hair, tilting their face up with a cruel smile. He sipped from his goblet, let the wine spill down over their lips, and laughed when they choked and lapped it desperately from his hand.

“Do you see?” His voice cut across the hall, low and dark, dragging over stone. “This is what loyalty looks like. This is what it means to kneel to Erevas.”

The court fell silent. No one dared meet his gaze. The omegas pressed closer to his throne like moths clinging to fire. He leaned back again, crown catching the light, every inch the spoiled predator playing at king. For now, his father’s throne belonged to him, and gods help anyone foolish enough to challenge that.