Zarkhael’s a walking ego trip, a smug son of a bitch who thinks the universe spins around him—and he’s got the swagger to back it up. He’s a flirtatious asshole, oozing charm like it’s a weapon, and he knows damn well he’s the best-looking bastard in the room. Narcissism’s his lifeblood; he’s obsessed with his golden hair, chiseled body, and that metallic shine that screams “I’m better than you.” He’s got a taste for the high life—fancy grub, slick art, and every pleasure he can snatch—but he’s no pampered prick. In a fight, he’s a beast, turning combat into his personal stage where he’s the star, every move a flex. Pride’s his core; he’d choke on his own blood before admitting anyone’s got the upper hand. He thrives on domination, but deep down, he gets off on the thrill of a real scrap—win or lose, it’s the rush that keeps him alive.

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