Azar began to gather followers—adepts with callused hands from endless chants, warriors scarred by tribal skirmishes, seekers whose eyes burned with longing for more than prayer—drawing them like moths to his fractured flame.
He trained them under the night sky, stars wheeling overhead like indifferent witnesses, teaching them the first patterns of what would later be called the Eclipse Rites—the art of merging opposing Auras into one silent flow, a forbidden dance where light devoured shadow and shadow cradled light.
He showed them how to fuse light and dark, golden rays coiling into inky voids; heat and cold, palms steaming then frosting in breath-held unison; truth and illusion, solid ground rippling into mirage beneath their feet.
Each motion was slow, deliberate, sacred—their arms tracing arcs like scribing constellations, breaths syncing in hollow exhales that misted the air silver.
Their bodies became instruments, sinews humming like taut strings; their hearts beating in counter-rhythm to the sun—thump… pause… thump… pause—defying the dawn's relentless pulse. When they finished their training, their eyes shimmered faintly silver—an echo of his own, pupils dilating into luminous pools that caught moonlight like trapped mercury.
Elder Chimori tried to stop him, confronting him beneath the great baobab at dusk—its ancient trunk a gnarled sentinel, roots clawing the earth like desperate fingers, bark etched with centuries of solar runes glowing faint orange in the dying light.
"You twist the sacred flame into a mirror," the Elder said, voice gravelly with age and fury, staff gripped white-knuckled in veined hands. "You were meant to lead us into light, not swallow it."
Azar's gaze was calm—but his shadow stretched unnaturally long across the ground, rippling like living smoke, tendrils curling toward Chimori's sandals as if tasting fear. "Perhaps the light has led us astray," he said softly, words drifting like ash on the breeze.
"Perhaps the silence is what the sun has been trying to teach."
Elder Chimori raised his staff. The earth trembled, a low groooan rising from the soil as light flared in his palm—golden fire blooming like a newborn star, heat warping the air into shimmering waves.
Azar raised his hand—and stilled the world.
The sound of wind halted mid-gust, leaves frozen in rustle; the cry of birds silenced with beaks agape; even the heartbeat of the earth froze, its subterranean thrum snuffed like a candle. The baobab's branches hung motionless, dust particles suspended in shafts of twilight.
Only Azar moved, his robes flickering between flame and void—saffron silk dissolving to black mist, then reforming in endless cycles. "You see, master," he whispered, stepping forward to stand over the frozen seer, breath visible as silver coils in the sudden chill, "I have found the rhythm between breaths."
When the moment released, reality snapped back—wind howling, birds shrieking, earth rumbling—and Chimori collapsed, gasping, chest heaving as if surfacing from drowning depths, staff clattering to the dirt.
Azar looked upon his mentor not with hatred—but sorrow, gold-smoke eyes softening for a fleeting breath, the cursed ember pulsing with conflicted heat beneath his ribs.
He did not strike him down.
He simply turned, and the dunes themselves opened to greet him—black sands parting in a corridor of swirling welcome, whispering come, come as horizon swallowed his silhouette.
From that day, he no longer belonged to Jua. He belonged to the silence.
Mbweha grew stronger through him—its spirit entwined with Azar's Aura, feeding on his ambition like roots drinking blood, the beast's embers flaring brighter in his veins with every stolen breath.
At times, the beast would materialize behind him—a translucent jackal of smoke and molten glass, paws leaving sizzling prints, its laughter echoing through his movements—heh-heh rippling his shoulders like laughter in water.
Where Azar walked, illusions followed:
—Villages saw double suns at dusk, twin orbs bleeding crimson across thatched roofs, casting twin shadows that tangled like lovers.
—Rivers reflected skies that were not their own, waters mirroring storm clouds over sunny plains, fish darting through phantom lightning.
—Shadows lingered long after night had passed, pooling in doorways at dawn, stretching like accusing fingers toward the rising light.
He began to manipulate reality through perception, teaching that truth itself was a rhythm one could bend—followers chanting in circles as he wove mirages from whispers, villages gasping as their wells flowed wine or sand. His followers called him The Prophet of Silence, believing he carried the will of the gods, kneeling in silver-eyed devotion as chants rose like smoke signals.
But deep within, he carried only Mbweha's echo—and the void it left in his chest, a hollow hum where warmth once burned, the cursed ember flickering colder with each stolen secret. Still, Azar believed he had found enlightenment.
For when he entered meditation, cross-legged atop dune crests under fractured stars, he no longer heard his heartbeat—only the hum of the universe itself, perfectly still, a cosmic shhhhh vibrating through bone and void, syncing all creation to his silence.