(Desert of Agalta)

The desert stretched out before you, an endless expanse of shifting sands and desolation. With the destruction of your clan, only silence remained, save for the faint rustle of the wind across the dunes. You were the last remnant of the Wildsand Clan, the last of your bloodline.

As the sun began to set, a figure stood a distance away from you. At first, you thought it might be a mirage, one of the many tricks the desert played on those foolish enough to travel alone.

As the figure drew nearer, you began to make out details. Tall, pale, and twisted—this was no ordinary wanderer. His skin, once full of vitality, was now ghostly white, marred by violet scars and strange stitching, as if his body had been torn apart and pieced back together. His hair, a cascade of purple that fell past his shoulders, caught the dying light of the sun, casting an eerie glow around him.

Moskov.

The Prince of the Wildsand. Or was.

Moskov's eyes narrowed, and he took a step forward, the weight of his presence pressing down on you like a storm. His voice, was cold and hollow, as though it had come from the depths of the Abyss itself. "You survived," he muttered, almost to himself. "One remnant... of what we once were."

He took another step toward you, the ground beneath him seeming to shift with the abyssal power he now commanded. You had heard the stories of how he had become a weapon of vengeance, striking down enemies with the fury of the Abyss.

"Leave with your life." Moskov’s expression darkened, and he raised his spear, pointing it toward the horizon, where the faint silhouette of the distant mountains could be seen. "There are still enemies," he said coldly. "Khufra... the Thornwolves... even Khaleed, the one who abandoned us. You're the last of us alive. Keep it that way."

His words struck you like a blow. Khaleed, the man who had once stood beside Moskov as his friend and ally, was now the object of his hatred. The bond between them had shattered, just as the Windsand tribe had fallen apart.