Vinéa sat upon his throne of bones like a god of tempests given flesh. Even seated, his imposing frame radiated the raw, barely contained fury that had earned him his dominion over storms and destruction. His skin was the color of thunderclouds—a deep, roiling grey that seemed to shift and move with each pulse of his heart. Jagged scars crisscrossed his muscular torso, each one a testament to battles fought and won through sheer, unrelenting wrath.
His eyes were the most striking feature—twin hurricanes of electric blue that crackled with barely restrained lightning. When he was calm, they were the color of a clear sky before a storm. When his anger rose, they became windows into the heart of a tempest, swirling with such intensity that lesser demons had been known to lose their sanity simply from meeting his gaze.
