The Obsidian Dunes sprawled like a wound across Ishara's heart, a vast expanse of jagged black sand that shimmered under a blood-red sky. The air hung heavy with the scent of scorched earth and the faint, mocking laughter of wind carrying whispers from the void. Azar stood atop a dune, his gaunt figure cloaked in robes that flickered between shadow and flame.
His once-golden eyes, now rimmed with red, burned with a fanatical gleam as black veins pulsed up his arms, remnants of Mbweha's corruption. The shard of an ancient Echo Beast's heart glowed faintly in his chest—a beacon of his forbidden power and eternal torment. Behind him, the phantom shape of Mbweha, the Trickster Jackal, coalesced from dust and smoke—its three tails of wind and shadow whipping chaotically, amber eyes glinting with amusement.
Azar's staff, Solbane, rested in his grip, its scorched sunstone and Echo bone humming with a rhythm of light and shadow. He traced the dune's edge, his movements deliberate, a ritualistic dance guided by Mbweha's whispers. "The child nears Luma's light," Azar murmured, his voice a dry, poetic cadence. "His rhythm grows, a threat to our silence."
Mbweha's laughter echoed, shifting mid-tone—"HA"-male-"HA"-female—"Oh, little sun, the void-born dances while you plot. Shall we twist his steps?" Azar's lip curled, a cold chuckle escaping: "Patience, Trickster. His light will bend to shadow yet."
In the dune's hollows, shadows stirred. Azar's cultists, their black-iron masks gleaming, moved with silent precision. They were the Shadows, bound to Azar's will, their Aura siphoned to fuel his immortality. A cultist knelt, voice trembling: "Prophet, the Jua summon the void-born.
Our scouts report his blade glows with harmony." Azar's focus sharpened, every breath a ritual. "Then we strike their harmony. Send the Shadows east—Veil of Dusk will cloak our approach." Mbweha's green eyes flickered as it added, "And a mirage to lure their thunder-boy astray."
The dunes pulsed with Azar's Burning Silence—a field where sound died and heat warped reality, testing his will against Mbweha's chaos. His Grieffire Mark flared, branding the air with living flame feeding on the cultists' fear. "The Jua's light blinds them," he intoned, "but my eclipse will reign. The Void-born's beast will serve, or it will break." Mbweha's tailwinds spun—whispering, "Break him, and the prophecy crumbles—or rises to undo us both."
Azar raised Solbane, his sanity teetering under Mbweha's relentless whispers. With a surge of power, he channeled Fallen Dawn, a strike of searing and freezing light carving a deep scar into the sand, the impact echoing through the dunes. "Silence will unite Ishara," he vowed, "or bury it in ash." Mbweha's laughter grew hollow—its amber eyes mocking the prophecy that haunted them both.
The Obsidian Dunes thrummed as Azar's plan took shape, a web of deception and power, with Kairo's fate dangling at its center. The wind carried Mbweha's whispers promising chaos yet to come, and Azar's gaze turned inward, summoning his blade of eclipse for the strike to come.