The Demon Prince

Alara: Analyzing Monsters

The eyes I meet are black. Not black in an angry way. They are black in an empty way, as devoid of soul as I currently am of my power. They make me feel the same hopeless way that the loss of power does. Nothing in nature should feel like this. My very being as a fairy recoils back from those soulless eyes.

The face attached to those eyes is broad and rounded into an eerily attractive and welcoming soft shape. If not for those black, deep-set eyes, one might venture to think this man was friendly based on his face alone. Though no creature, magical or otherwise, would mistake his horns as a friendly omen.

They curl out from the sides of his head and spiral upwards. They are black as night, spouting through thick, curly hair, only a shade or two lighter. The edges are jagged, showing their years of battle use.

As if the soulless eyes and hellish horns weren't enough, the man himself was massive. Overflowing on his already giant throne, all bulky muscle and power on display.

He's garbed in white dress pants and a black button-up that's all but bursting from his enormous size.

This is the Demon King, Belrath. Of course, that is only his title. No one knows his full name. To know a demon's name is to control it.

He raises a finger and points at me, interrupting my thoughts.

"What is your name?" he asks in his deep timbre. I don't see a reason not to give them my real first name, as it is not strictly a royal name.

"Alara" I say quietly, eyes cast down in submission.

"Your full name!" He demands, slamming the hilt of a staff down on the marble floors, causing loud echoing around the chamber.

"Alara Raey Windstrom" I say with the perfect amount of confidence and fear. He will believe me. It helps that two of the three names are the truth.

I take this chance to sweep my eyes across the pedestal of chairs before me as if frantic and frightened, while studying my foes.

The queen is as to be expected— most have seen Queen Serphia, as she does her husband's day-to-day work outside the castle. Hers is the face many fear the most. Her sickly pale skin contrasts sharply to the king's tan hide. She is thin and angled sharply with red-tinted lips, deep brown hair that's straight as a razor's edge, and eyes as red as her diet. Even sitting still, she has the appearance of a cat about to pounce on her prey.

The two young men on either side of the king and queen are unfamiliar to me, but it's obvious there is a direct relationship. These are their spawn.

I'm quite shocked at how normal they look. They each spout small black horns from dark hair, but their faces are remarkably normal given their parentage.

Given his position to the right of the king, the bulkier, tanner of the two is the oldest and heir to the throne. This one's hair is just a shade darker than his mom's, but he has the same thick curls as the demon king. His face is broad like his father's but less extreme in its shape. His eyes, though deep set, appear more natural in their place than the kings.

He wears khakis over his practical brown dress shoes, paired with a white button-down and red vest with a gold pocket chain. The sleeves of his shirt are lazily rolled up to his forearms, showcasing hard muscles underneath. The collar is unbuttoned, teasing a toned chest. Overall, he is dressed well, in a casual way. Almost as if he's wearing every item of nice clothing just a bit incorrectly— perhaps intentionally.

This man is so handsome I nearly forget that I'm doing a quick recon in a life or death situation and silently curse myself for getting so distracted, but still…

His strangely amber-colored eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second and I swear I see a flash of something knowing in them. He's figured something out about me.

I don't have time to dwell on what that may be right now, so I move on to study the younger brother before I panic.

This one is smaller, slight and angled in frame with a face more like his mother than his father. His hair is black as night and shiny. It falls stick straight like the queens, but a little thicker. It's cut into choppy layers that angle into points that reach just past his ears. His eyes are closer to red than amber, but nothing like the nightmare orbs of his mother.

Unlike his brother, he is dressed immaculately, though similarly. He wears black dress pants and a silver button down under a black vest, with a silver pocket chain. His collar is buttoned and fastened with a black tie. I don't need to look to know he is the wearer of the intricate leather dress shoes.

Everything about this brother screams perfectionist. It's easy to deduce that he lives in his older brother's shadow and that he is bitter about it. His face is a twist of simmering anger and plotting mischief under a barely canceled mask of calm.

This one studies me clinically, in a way that sends a shiver down my spine.