The heat of the Tagor Desert did not simply exist; it assaulted the senses. It was a physical weight, a crushing blanket of oppressive yang energy that distorted the horizon and turned the air into a shimmering haze of mirages. Even in the shadows of the jagged rock formations where Alaric had established his temporary lair, the temperature was high enough to boil water in minutes.
But inside the cave, protected by layers of high-tier isolation arrays and Alaric's own Void Magic, the air was cool and still.
Alaric stood near the entrance of the cave, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the endless expanse of red sand dunes shift under the relentless sun. He wore his black Archmage robes, the fabric enchanted to repel dust and heat, making him look like a spectre of darkness in a world of blinding light.
