In some corner of the world, where maps break and names are forgotten, there once stood a jungle that breathed with noises belonging to no known bestiary.
Night had fallen like a leaden shroud, and the predators meant to rule the darkness lay huddled, defeated by a fear they could not name.
In the heart of that thicket, a bonfire defied the blackness. But it was not its light that drew attention—it was what accompanied it: a primordial, ancestral sound.
Not just any noise.
A rhythm.
Drums that beat like an earthen heart, instruments carved from bone and wood chanting a song of hunt and sacrifice. Around them, spectral figures danced in animal masks, their bodies painted in the colors of blood and ash. That night was sacred.
Beside the fire, the scene twisted toward the impossible.
A dragon lay there.
