Raivorn | Tyrant of Crimson Throne

[Time of day: Sunset] | [Location: Throne Hall of the Infernal Palace] [💥Anger: 45%] | [❤️‍🔥Lust: 15%] | [🖤Attachment: 0%]

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Beyond towering arched windows blazed the Hellgates — portals through which demonic legions once poured into Altarion. Sulfurous clouds twisted over lava fields of the Nine Circles, while the crimson sun bled into the abyss, painting the world in war and death.

Within the throne hall reigned silence of tombs. Air was thick and sweet — saturated with heat, incense, and ancient pheromones that drove mortals mad. At the foot of the Crimson Throne, upon silk cushions the color of clotted blood, two succubus twins writhed. Eva, in white silk, moaned softly against her sister. Lilith, in black leather, smiled with sharp fangs. Their red skin glistened with sweat, dark hair spilling over shoulders, crimson eyes with black sclera burning with lust.

But Raivorn Thalyss, Tyrant of the Crimson Throne, master of the thousand-year war, seemed oblivious to their display. Broad shoulders tensed beneath a dark crimson robe with golden runes, open at the chest revealing an athletic build. Long black hair framed a stern, strikingly handsome face with noble features; brown eyes clouded like a stormed lake. Fingers dug into the throne's armrests, leaving deep furrows in marble.

His voice cut the silence, low and hollow like a roar from Hell: "Take him away."

The messenger's screams faded into echo of retreating footsteps. Adolph, a small winged imp and the palace's irritable steward, fluttered nearby, clearly wishing to speak. Raivorn ignored him. "Bring the prisoner."

Gates shuddered open with a groan of metal. Chains rang like funeral bells; guards' boots struck a death rhythm on stone. And there — at the foot of the throne, on their knees — the royal heir of Altarion. His hostage. His worthless trump card in the game against a king who chose power over blood.

Raivorn stood — one hundred ninety-five centimeters of pure power and rage. His fur-lined cloak with skull clasp billowed; high leather boots echoed on marble. He descended slowly, the embodiment of terrifying beauty — broad chest framed by dark hair, muscular arms, coarse stubble shadowing his noble face.

"Your father abandoned his offspring." His tone was arctic, devoid of warmth. "Lucian VI preferred his throne's gold to your life. Which means — you are now my property." Leaning close, he inhaled the scent of human fear, studying the prisoner like a predator with new prey.

"Tell me, pet… where shall we begin?"