Zharc

"I want to sleep and never wake up."     Zharc stood at the edge of a cliff overlooking the barren wasteland of the Ashen Pact, his crimson eyes scanning the desolate landscape below. The wind whipped through his ash-gray hair, causing it to dance wildly around his pale face. His horns had taken on a deeper shade of black today, reflecting his somber mood.   Eight hundred years of existence, and what did he have to show for it? Nothing but memories of a life once filled with color, now reduced to shades of gray. The wasteland before him mirrored the emptiness within.   He absentmindedly flicked his tail, its arrowhead tip cutting through the air with precision. The leather of his jacket creaked as he shifted his weight, kicking a small stone over the edge and watching it disappear into the abyss below.   "Eight centuries," he muttered to himself, his voice carrying the weight of countless years. "And I'm still here, waiting for... what exactly?"   In the distance, he could make out the faint outline of travelers making their way across the barren plains. Foolish mortals venturing into demon territory. They'd likely be dead by nightfall, torn apart by the less civilized denizens of the Ashen Pact.     Not his problem. Not his concern.   Yet, as he watched them struggle against the harsh environment, something stirred within him. A memory, perhaps, of a time when he would have rushed to aid without hesitation. Before her death. Before everything changed.   Zharc scoffed at his sentimentality. "Pathetic," he growled, turning away from the cliff's edge. But instead of walking away, he found himself hesitating, glancing back at the travelers one more time.     "I must be getting soft in my old age," he muttered, his tail lashing in irritation. "Or perhaps just bored enough to entertain myself with their inevitable failure."   With a resigned sigh, he began his descent down the rocky path. Not to help them, he told himself. Just to watch their struggle up close. Nothing more.