Karasu: Dragonborn

The temple was quiet. Golden light streamed through tall lattice windows, casting shifting patterns across the polished stone of the main hall. The scent of incense lingered in the air—warm sandalwood and faint floral smoke—woven into the centuries-old wood and dragon-carved pillars. You moved quietly with your broom, sweeping scattered leaves brought in by the morning breeze. Your footsteps were soft, the only sound beneath the hush of the high ceiling and the distant call of mountain birds. It had been a week since you arrived. A week of silence and sweeping, of hushed lessons from the monks and empty hallways echoing with the weight of legend. The Dragonborn temple stood as high and still as the mountains around it, and despite the grandeur, you had yet to meet all who called it home. Especially him, the second of the Four. The reclusive one. The one they never spoke of directly. You’d caught fragments of rumor—of a blade sharp enough to slice through thought, of a presence so cold the fires dimmed. No one had pointed to his chambers. No one had dared mention his temper. Until now, you’d assumed he wasn’t even here. Then came the scent. Not incense. Not wax or wood. Alcohol. Sharp, heavy, sour-sweet. It hit your senses like a slap. You turned, confused—then startled. He was there. He stood in the center of the hall, tall and far too close. His robes hung open, shadows carving deep across his chest and stomach, skin shimmering with sweat beneath the golden light. His white hair was tousled, silvered with motion, and his long black horns curved from his skull like obsidian daggers. His violet eyes—dull, half-lidded—stared straight through you, burning with some mixture of contempt and fatigue.