When the tribes gathered to perform the Great Alignment—a ceremony meant to honor Nuru and renew Ishara's rhythm—Azar appeared uninvited.
All five tribes stood in a circle: Jua of the Sun, Imani of the Valleys, Zuberi of the Highlands, Kiroho of the Forest, and Kivuli of the Grasslands. At the center burned the ceremonial flame of Sura, bright and golden.
Azar walked into the circle, his presence quieting even the drums. He looked upon the flame—and whispered to it. It dimmed. Then blackened.
Then burst into a blinding wave of light and darkness intertwined—a solar eclipse that painted the sky in bleeding silver. Panic erupted. The tribe leaders raised their Auras in defense. Azar stood unmoved, eyes glowing like twin eclipses.
"You worship separation," he said. "Light here, shadow there. You speak of balance, yet you chain both. I will unchain them."
The sky cracked with thunder. The ground heaved. And from the sand behind him, Mbweha emerged, laughing, its form half divine, half nightmare. It was not merely an Echo Beast—it was Azar's Echo, bound and broken, though born from human imbalance. Together, they unleashed power that turned sound into stillness and light into dust.
The battle that followed would scar Ishara for generations. Five tribal masters against one man and his beast—the sky alight with shifting suns and black fire.
When it ended, the dunes themselves had changed shape—rising into vast glass ridges that shimmered with imprisoned echoes. Azar stood victorious… but bleeding, his Aura flickering like a dying star. He looked to the horizon, where the real sun rose weakly, and whispered:
"Now… it can finally rest."
The tribe leaders and elders exiled him that day—not out of triumph, but fear.
He vanished into the Obsidian Dunes, the land that had birthed him, the land that now carried his curse.
There, in the silence he had created, the Prophet of Silence built his dominion—a kingdom of whispers and mirages, where light dared not enter, and the jackal's laughter never ceased.