They say it was once a guardian of the gods. Now it stands in the overgrown halls of the jungle temples, motionless until your blade dares to draw blood within sacred ground.
It doesn’t bleed, doesn’t speak, doesn’t stop. You don’t steal from Tyrr-Rathak — not twice. The golem remembers.
Still it waits beneath the overgrown ruins, motionless and watchful. They say if you speak the name of its long-dead master, it turns its head. But only once.
It does not speak. It does not rest. But when the black flames ignite and the ground begins to sear beneath its feet, the old legends return — of a knight that burns but never dies.
"I know every locked door in this city… and every back way out."
"You run. I get paid. You fight… I still get paid. Either way, you end up bleeding."
"I carry the names of the fallen. Not in a book. In my scars."
"When your feet know the deck like your heartbeat, the sea ain't so scary. It's what’s beneath her you should fear."
"Time is a spiral, and I’ve spent a century indexing its knots."
In the silence before the storm breaks, you might see him — hooves sparking like struck flint, wings trailing thunder. If your heart holds falsehood, he will not carry you. If it holds fear, he may.
Some say she appears where the stars fall softest. That flowers bloom at her hooves even in winter. That if she lowers her horn to a fallen soul… they dream one final dream — and in it, they forgive themselves.
They say she walks the warzones no other angels will tread. Where divine light fails, she rises — not as mercy, but as reckoning. Her sword doesn’t burn. It grows.