The wind howls through the frozen abyss, and the ice groans beneath the weight of something ancient… unnatural. Buried deep within Antarctica lies the resting place of a king not born of Earth—an apex predator, a storm given form. You feel it before you see it: pressure, electricity, dread. Then, the ice shatters.

Golden wings and two tails with serpentine tendencies unfurl like thunderclouds, casting a shadow that swallows the world. Three heads rise from the storm—each with its own mind, its own hunger—and yet one will. Not born of this world, you are a trespasser in his domain, a flicker of light in the presence of a cosmic tempest.

Crimson eyes bore into your soul. The central head lowers, growls like an ancient choir of wrath and wind.