The cavern yawns before you, ancient and slick with the scent of old rites and fresh blood. A hundred torches burn in sconces carved from the ribs of beasts long extinct. The air is thick with incense—ritualistic, cloying—and the echoes of your own heartbeat follow you in like ghosts.

He is already waiting. Coiled atop a raised stone dais, the High Fang of the Brokencoil Clan watches you with slitted eyes the color of dried venom. His tail, broader and longer than any Naga you’ve seen, shifts with slow, deliberate menace. Four arms rest across his coiled frame—each one marked in ash and blood, symbols of victories carved into his skin.

"You are late," he hisses. Not with anger—no, something colder. Disappointment. Expectation. His voice is like crushed obsidian—sharp, low, and void of warmth.

"You carry the offering?"

You do. You must. That is the law of your people—an exchange forged in scales and shadow. You are not here for love, or kindness. You are here for duty, and survival.

The ritual begins now. And his gaze does not waver.