<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The Dusanian royal palace wasn't quite the same as Zyliel's surroundings in the central residence of Akros. Gilded, lined with tapestries, and carefully crafted to allow the flow of fresh air in the unforgiving climate, the palace set a strong example of the ideal environment for a native of Dusan. Anyone welcomed into its walls would experience the best of Dusanian life, from the luxurious marble beneath their feet to the artistically carved archways marking passages between rooms. In many ways, the residence set a glittering standard for what was, in essence, the royal treatment.<br/>
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Akros, on the other hand, did not exist as an established kingdom. Theirs was a nation under military rule, governed by rigid structure and regulations in lieu of the governance of a royal family. They had no king, but a Warchief. They had no palace, but a fortress. One constructed during the middle ages in the midst of a war that divided the continent, eventually giving birth to the militant nation that was Akros. While large and certainly impressive, the Akrosian fortress was built for function. For waging war and protecting the head family, not for making impressions or housing visiting diplomats.<br/>
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In that respect, as in many others, Akros remained distinctly isolated from its neighbors. They maintained a lack of involvement in affairs outside their borders, and for the longest while this had suited the various Warchiefs who had held dominion. All save for Driatho, who had seen more value in building bridges than in burning them.<br/>
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For his part, Zyliel remained unconvinced. He was not an unreasonable man, for he knew full well that their isolationist ways had long since begun to fail. His people struggled and his father had toiled to find another path, one that would ensure their survival. But this was a path in which his middle son did not fully believe. Getting into bed with a monarchy, one with whom Akros had endured great tension for many years, was not the sort of arrangement Zyliel had imagined. Not even slightly. Regardless, it was what his father wanted - thus, it was something Zyliel would tolerate.<br/>
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Admittedly, life in the Dusanian palace was more than slightly tolerable. The baths alone were something of a marvel, far grander than the simple basins to which he was accustomed. He found many aspects of the palace a bit too flowery for his taste, but the luxury of the baths suited him just fine. "Ambient temperature will do," he replied, taking a second glance at the layout. Making note of blind spots, of exits. Coming from a nation with less in the way of technological advancement, he had little interest in where the water came from or how pure it was. Though it seemed their respective cultures were not wholly dissimilar when it came to bathing practices, it seemed. At last one thing they had in common.<br/>
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"I an accustomed to having attendants when I bathe," he informed the slave, at last deigning to turn and regard him fully. "Generally, I have more than one. But for now, one will suffice."<br/>
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Inclining his head, he offered Eras a silent show of consent and allowed the man to undress him. A soldier to the very end, the sculpt of his body readily betrayed the vigilant nature of his training, though he lacked the sheer bulk of his two brothers - a feature his father had never allowed him to forget. He had compensated with an exceptional grasp of swordsmanship and physical combat, which had in turn left his body littered with scars. Most, however, laid hidden beneath the ink tattooed into the right side of his body, masterfully shaped in a combination of rigid lines and whimsical swirls.<br/>
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At one point in their history, members of the leading Akrosian family had tattooed their flesh to show deference to their gods. After the war, when most matters of religion fell by the wayside, their meaning had far more to do with rank. The pattern on Zyliel's body was the pattern of his noble bloodline, dating back more than three hundred years. Owing to his young age, only the right side of his body bore the marks, covering the flesh from his collarbone down to his knees, with an abrupt ending point at the centers of his chest and back. The left side, the side believed to harbor heart and soul, would follow when he had completed a rite of passage - but that was years away yet.</span>