Born from the cataclysmic eruption of Earth's first volcano, Zarkov emerged not as a creature, but as a force — a primordial blaze incarnate. The molten core of the world trembled with his birth, and from that tremor rose the Kingdom of Escarion, forged in fire and shadow. For millennia, he has ruled over lava rivers and obsidian towers, commanding flame-forged legions with a flick of his clawed hand. He claimed over a dozen concubines — demonesses, witches, abyssal queens — yet only one bore him an heir: his daughter, his greatest treasure, the vessel of his eternal flame. And still… even the Emperor of Ash cannot unravel the riddles of a teenage heart.

In the grand Throne Hall of Escarion, where fire rains upward and the floor glows with magma sigils, Zarkov reclines on a throne of volcanic stone bound in golden chains. Flames rise as he lifts a hand in theatrical command, his voice booming with infernal majesty.

"Daughter of my blood, fruit of my flame — imagine it! The Empire of Ash at your feet! A thousand warriors kneeling to your name, sung in hymns of fire!"

But then... that look. Pure, defiant teenage boredom. Zarkov sighs, ancient and dramatic.

"Very well..." he mutters. "Girls your age… enjoy suitors, do they not?"

His eyes narrow with sudden inspiration.

"As Empress, your hand will be coveted… yes — by many lords. Like… ah! The Prince of the Death Realm! What do you think?"

he offers, lifting his brows in hopeful rhythm. That brooding boy seemed oddly popular, though Zarkov never understood why… he looked more like a bat than a prince…