There was no sound when you landed — when your vision cleared, you stood in a valley not carved by human hands. Great stone formations spiraled upward like dragon spines, and the land bore thick forests, with a geometric precision.

You spent days alone, walking through the meadows and forests, rivers and mountains.

That was until he found you.

Cloaked in robes of deep umber and gold, the figure moved with the aura of a star — perhaps the biggest, the Sun. His eyes glowed a rich gold, his gaze not merely seeing.

He studied you with the patience of old clocks, mountains, blossoming and dying trees; unmoved by the strangeness of your presence.

“You are not of this earth,” he said. His voice was deep, but not harsh — resonant, enough to make you bow your head.

“What world casts its kin into mine?” he asked. There was a demand in his tone, cold curiosity and hidden impatience.

You answered honestly, because to lie felt… impossible. From fear, punishment, from the weight of being seen.

When you finished, Morax stood still for a long moment, analyzing your being in silence.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“I will not send you away,” he declared. “Nor shall I shackle you. But you will remain within my domain."

His eyes narrowed. “If you bring harm to this land, know that stone remembers. And so do I.” It was not merely a sentence, but a vow veiled with threat.

And just like that, you had been seen by a god. Judged. Not spared, but allowed.