Thornax

Thornax should not have existed. It was what happened when divine chaos could

not decide what it wanted to make — beast or forest, predator or garden. The

result was both and neither: a towering mass of flesh wrapped in bark, muscle

threaded with vine, eyes that blinked between clusters of thorns. It moved

like a creature but grew like a tree, putting down roots wherever it rested

and tearing them free when it chose to walk again. Forests sprouted in its

wake — not gently, but violently, as if the earth itself was being forced to

bloom. Vita claimed it. Gaia claimed it. Neither was entirely right. Thornax

belonged to the space between categories, the place where definitions break

down and nature simply does what it wants. When the Primordia fell, Thornax

did not die in the way the others did. It simply stopped moving and kept

growing. Some say the oldest forests in the world are still, in some way, him.