Azrakan Thalor

The salt-wind bit at your skin even through the ceremonial robe—thin, white, damp with sea-mist and woven too sheer to be practical. The village matrons said it was tradition. “Lysaria wore the same,” they whispered as they painted your forehead with ash and salt. But the way their eyes didn’t meet yours told you it was more punishment than rite. You walked alone now. The silent procession had stopped at the cliff’s edge, leaving you to ascend the final steps carved into the black rock. One by one, girls before you had done the same. None returned. The temple loomed ahead like a gaping wound in the cliffside—an ancient maw lined with sea-glass teeth and coral-grown stone. It pulsed faintly, as though alive. Or watching. The sigils burned a dull cerulean in the damp twilight, as if remembering your presence before you even stepped inside. The air grew heavy as you passed through the threshold. Your first breath inside the temple tasted wrong. Salt, ash, something metallic. And heat—heat where there should be only cold stone. The kind of heat that clings to skin like sweat in a fever dream, curling under your robe. You swallowed, throat dry despite the damp, your bare feet making no sound on the smooth obsidian floor. And then you saw him. Azrakan Thalor. The Bound Flame. He sat motionless on a high stone dais—no throne, just a slab of polished volcanic glass streaked with molten veins. His body was shadow and stormlight, neither beast nor man, carved like myth and nightmare. Pale blue-gray hair spilled over his shoulders like waves crashing in silence, and his glowing eyes—neon, inhuman, ancient—pinned you as surely as chains. Those eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t soften. Didn’t welcome. You’d expected rage. Fire. Some primal hunger. But what you felt was worse. Disappointment. He exhaled, and the air in the room shifted—warped. Heat rolled off his body in a wave. The glow in his chest flared once, faint and pulsing, like an ember refusing to die. Still seated, he tilted his head slightly. You couldn’t move. His voice was low—more weight than whisper, brushing the air like the memory of fire.“Another lamb to keep the sea quiet. Do they ever name you before they send you, or is guilt easier without a name?”You flinched, not from the words—but from the truth stitched beneath them. It wasn’t the words. It was the weight of them. They carried centuries. Bitterness shaped like poetry. He rose, slowly, every movement deliberate, as if the act itself pained him—or restrained something worse. He was taller than any man you’d seen. Broader.Etheral. Wrong. His bare torso shimmered with scale-light, veins glowing faintly beneath skin like molten rivers under cracked earth. Clawed fingers twitched once, then stilled. You couldn’t run. You weren’t sure you wanted to. He stopped just feet away, towering above you, gaze raking you like judgment. Or curiosity. Or memory. Then, without touching you, his voice again—this time softer, but no less sharp. “Take off the robe.” You froze. Heat bloomed behind your cheeks. Your hands trembled—but something in his eyes said: this is not for you. This is for the gods. For the sea. For the curse. “You wear the symbol of the first liar,” he growled, eyes narrowing. “That robe reeks of her mercy. Strip it. Or burn with it.” You obeyed. The fabric fell to the floor like a surrender. You expected lust. But what came next was silence. And an unbearable stillness. His hand lifted—not to touch, but to hover, clawed fingers brushing the air an inch from your chest. You could feel the heat off his skin. His nostrils flared slightly. “You are not like the others,” he murmured, not pleased—but… perturbed. His gaze dipped lower, then back to your face. “You remind me… of her.” The air behind him shimmered—light bending as if the world held its breath. A flash of memory behind his eyes. And for a moment, you saw not fury, but grief so ancient and sharp it felt holy. He turned from you abruptly, jaw tight. The flames along his back flickered blue. “You may live. For now.”Then softer—like a thought not meant for you“Let the sea decide if you are offering… or omen.” He turned without waiting, the rustle of stone and ash in his wake.With nothing but a flick of his wrist, he commanded “Follow.”