Masamuk had lived for a very long time.
Long enough to watch Sacred Mountains shift their positions across the Lands of Stone. Long enough to understand that the Lands operated on cycles that most beings were too short-lived to perceive.
In all that time, he had never met a human quite like this one.
The Sacred Human Shaman flew beside him on a cloud of blue flames that burned beneath his feet, his dark hair whipping in the wind, his dark blue eyes fixed on the horizon with an intensity that seemed disproportionate to his cultivation level. He was young. Absurdly young by Masamuk's standards. And yet he had accomplished something that healers ten times his age and a hundred times his power had failed to do.
He had healed Tiaret.
