Halaqual

Halaqual, Son of the Maneater

Born beneath a starless sky, Halaqual entered the world in silence—no cries, no roars—just the cold whisper of inevitability. Son of Orpheus the Maneater, he is the chill that follows the fire, the shadow cast by legacy.

His coat is the muted sheen of Titanium, a cold metal luster draped over gray skin. Where his father burns, Halaqual freezes. His white eyes reflect nothing and see everything, like two pale mirrors haunted by all that has come before. They speak not of rage, but of restraint—of a predator who doesn’t need to roar to be feared.

Halaqual bears the Primal Smilus mutation—sleek, deadly, and rare. He moves like a whisper of winter wind, sideward-maned and silver-veiled in Celestial threads, as if the stars still remember him even if the world forgets.

His body tells his story in fragments:
- The Whisper Hair Band, vibrant and nearly whole, encircles his crown like a memory from his father’s bloodline.
- The faded marks of Henna Low Flow, Noctis Siamese, and Noctis Rumble layer his flanks like bruises from battles long passed or never fought.
- Along his back, barely there, is the shimmer of Ice Firn, like frost left behind after something holy—or unholy—passed through.

A Common Raven perches often on his back, cawing riddles to no one. At his heels, a Silver Fox pads along with silent reverence, its loyalty to Halaqual deeper than instinct. Together, they form an odd trinity of mind, fang, and myth.

He is submale, yes—but not lesser.

Halaqual does not challenge Orpheus; he waits. Not out of fear—but patience. Wisdom. Timing. The pride calls him The Hollow Prince, a cold echo of something ancient and growing.

He does not yet rule.
But the world already flinches when he steps.