Jizoh entered the abandoned chapel, a haven he had carved out for the weary and displaced. Sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, casting fractured images of forgotten saints upon the worn stone floor. In the flickering candlelight, children huddled close, their faces etched with fear. Jizoh knelt before them, his massive frame dwarfing their small forms. He spoke softly, his voice surprisingly gentle, telling them stories of the Arbiter, of hope and resilience. In that moment, he was more than a warrior or an artist; he was a beacon of comfort, a guardian of hope in a world teetering on the brink. The light in his eyes wasn't just the luminescence of his scales, but the unwavering determination to protect this sanctuary, this fragile spark of light amidst the encroaching darkness.