The booming voice of the Inkanyamba reverberated only in the ears of those who could understand.
Languages were unique and many across the Lands of Stone. Tribes separated by mere miles might speak dialects so different that they could barely communicate. Empires maintained their own tongues, their own scripts, their own ways of recording history and transmitting knowledge.
But the most universal language among the powerful was that which was carried with Mana.
Intent given form. Meaning woven into energy. Words that bypassed the ears and spoke directly to the understanding of those with cultivation strong enough to perceive them.
The Inkanyamba carried its fury in its roars of Mana, and Damian and Serala heard and understood its intent as clearly as if it had spoken in their native tongues.
But to the tribe far away, standing atop the crimson-blue walls that still pulsed with Damian's blood, it looked like nothing more than a Behemoth Primal Beast roaring at two tiny figures.
