The storm raged outside, thrashing the land with unnatural fury. Rain whipped against the broken temple's ancient stones, its howl merging with the eerie wind that howled through the cracked walls.
The stone pillars, once grand, now lay in ruin, their carvings barely visible beneath centuries of decay and grime. This was no place for the living—not any longer. The very air hummed with dark, ancient magic.
Inside, the circle was drawn in blood. The mage stood at the centre of the circle, his robes tattered but shimmering with an ethereal energy. The fabric rippled in the wind. He stood over the altar with both arms raised, a bone dagger etched with writhing sigils in one hand. The other, bloodied to the wrist, hovered above the egg on the altar.
His eyes glowed with an unnatural light—fiery, golden—revealing nothing but the promise of destruction and rebirth.
