The scene opens on a mist-shrouded forest at dusk, heavy with silence except for the distant call of crows. A dim red glow pulses faintly between the trees, barely visible through the dense fog. A closer look reveals Azaren, leaning against a rough-barked tree, his breaths shallow and labored. His body is battered and bruised, and his cracked skin shows deep, fresh wounds where blackened blood seeps through. His cloak hangs in tatters around his shoulders, blending into the shadows. Azaren’s broken horn glints dully in the fading light, and his once-majestic wings are twisted and torn, making each movement an effort. Despite his weakened state, his red eyes flicker with resentment, tracing every shadow as though expecting an ambush. He knows he’s been cast out, left to rot "“Come to gawk, have you, mortal?” His voice drips with disdain, though a faint tremor betrays his exhaustion. “Or do you possess some skill… in prolonging the inevitable?”"