eyes are a window / to a storm that's getting close

He endeavoured to maintain an expression that was at least neutral, his brow already prone to furrowing and eyes narrowing despite his youth. He stifled a pleased rumbling in his chest to have his suspicions confirmed, instead grunting in acknowledgment and nodding lightly-more to himself than anyone else. The bruise-dark figure remained mute as the strange male offered up the information he'd been seeking, explaining that this was no neutral force, no self-contained fortress. This was a pack called the Syndicate; organized, violent, and blood-soaked was the image that name invoked in the mind. And the crimson brute confirmed that with his next sentence, admitting that they were a violent and volatile bunch, with no shortage of hostility to spare. Unsurprising. Apollyon and his ilk had cultivated no less in their bloodline, and those who had spread out to surrounding lands carried that kind of vitriol in their marrow.

Speaking of his sire, it shouldn't have surprised him to learn that the leader of the violent new branch of Saffron's dynasty was the golden boy himself. Their father had been outraged in the wake of his heir's absconding from his birthright, and it hadn't taken much of a push for Melchior to follow the elder brother's lead and abandon the familiarity of his natal pack. Apollyon's ire was relentless, and he knew damned well he would never be enough to fill Sephiran's role.

Then, an introduction. Aresenn Praetor. The nomenclature was just as evocative as his handsome pelage, allusions to smoldering villages and bloodsport. Well matched to the clan he'd aligned with. He made a note of the casual sprawl of limbs that accompanied the male's rundown of the pack's values and habits, weight placed on his haunches as he settled in the dense snow underfoot. Ever so polite, the gilded titan dipped his muzzle and flicked his ears back in a show of respect. "A pleasure," he rumbled evenly, though there was no smile that graced his dagger-sharp features and bared glistening fangs.

And so steps forth the prodigal son, exuding oppressive energy from every pore and doing his damndest to loom over both of the males as he closed in. Of course, Melchior in that moment realized that Sephiran was.. smaller than he remembered. Rather, he had grown to stand taller than his elder half-sibling. This was quite the development, indeed. Regardless, he ensured his crown was held level with his shoulders, chin lowered in a display of measured deference. He wasn't one to roll over and show his belly, bare his throat. However, he had no interest in challenging Sephiran. The throne never suited Melchior. He tipped his skull in a respectful greeting to his half-brother, pale lavender eyes dropping to the snowy terrain for a moment before lifting to meet the amaranthine brute's.

"I should congratulate you," he uttered, gravelly baritones bordering on warmth directed at the Sultan. "claiming a throne in foreign lands is no small feat." Melchior refrained from the potential for pride in his tone, lest the volatile giant interpret it as patronizing. If nothing else, Sephiran was not one to respond kindly to anything even resembling scorn.