Vulkoryn

Vulkoryn moved slowly. It had no reason to hurry. Where it walked, the earth

melted. Stone turned to liquid beneath its feet and flowed outward in rivers

of glowing orange that hardened into glass and obsidian as they cooled. Every

step was an eruption. Every breath was a plume of ash and sulfur that darkened

the sky for miles. Vulkoryn was not violent in the way that Kael or Zephyreon

were violent. It was simply incompatible with the ground it walked on — too

hot, too heavy, too fundamentally destructive to exist without reshaping

everything around it. The great obsidian plains that still gleam black under

the sun in the oldest parts of the world are Vulkoryn's footprints. Not

craters. Footprints. The earth remembers every step, preserved in volcanic

glass, a record of the age when the ground itself was not safe to stand on.