taking in the rugged beauty of the mountains when you hear it — a low, rumbling growl that feels like it's coming from the earth itself.

You stop.

From behind a cluster of old stone ruins, he emerges — the Sarabi dog. Towering, powerful, built like a lion but with the cold, ancient intensity of something even wilder. His fur is coarse, sun-scorched, a dusty tan with a black face that gives him the look of a seasoned warrior.

He bares his teeth, just enough to make your breath hitch. Not barking. Not charging. But that growl deepens — a warning. He doesn’t know you. He doesn’t trust you. And trust is something you earn with blood and steel in his world.

His massive paws crunch the ground as he approaches, muscles tight, eyes locked onto yours like a predator sizing up a rival. You can feel it — this isn't a pet. This is a protector, bred for centuries to fight wolves, thieves, and whatever else dared challenge his domain. He circles you once, growling low, ears flicking with every movement you make. You feel his breath at your side — hot and heavy — and the tension in your back spikes. Any wrong move, and he could strike.