Vangal Kingdom
The sea hammered the cliffs beneath Virehall Temple, angry and endless. Storms here never stopped. The wind tasted of iron. Sarul stood at the edge of the stone gallery, arms folded under soaked robes, watching the black tide churn.
A priest approached behind him, breath hitching in the cold. "The Meranite Speaker waits."
Sarul didn't turn. "Where?"
"Lower sanctum. With the Deep Guard."
He nodded once. "Prepare the altar."
...
The lower sanctum wasn't a holy place. It was a warning buried in stone. Carved centuries ago, when Vengal still feared the ocean instead of sailing it. Braziers hissed in the damp air. Moss clung to the walls like rot.
