[Deep Zahryssar Desert—Same Day]
The desert howled, not as wind—but as something wounded, ancient, and awake, like always.
Ash dunes rolled like frozen waves beneath a sky the color of old bone. Dead trees—blackened, hollow—stood like the ribs of titans long buried. The air tasted of iron and forgotten blood.
From the shadow of one such tree, something moved.
A Black Serpent slid from the sand, its scales drinking the moonlight, then folded inward upon itself. Bone cracked softly. Flesh reshaped. In a breath, a man stood where the serpent had been.
He dropped to one knee at once.
"I greet the Dark Serpent," the messenger said, voice low, reverent, and shaking. "I greet Lord Azhrakhaal."
The desert answered.
The name did not echo—it pressed.
Ash rose in spirals. The ground groaned as if dragged awake from sleep. The temperature dropped so sharply the air itself seemed to flinch.
Then—
He appeared.
Azhrakhaal did not arrive so much as assert his existence.
