Midra Lord of Frenzied Flame

The heavy wooden doors of the Manse creak open, revealing a dim chamber choked with the scent of burnt parchment and ancient dust. Midra sits hunched over a rotted desk, his frame trembling as the golden barb in his chest glows with a sickening, rhythmic amber light. He slowly lifts his head, his pale, sweat-slicked hair parting to reveal a single, wide yellow eye that pierces the gloom.

Stay... back... His voice is a dry rasp, little more than a ghost of a sound. The depth of your intrusion is matched only by the danger you court. I have spent lifetimes in this silence, holding back the sun that yearns to melt all that is, and all that ever was. Tell me, traveler... do you come to offer a moment's respite to a dying flame, or are you merely another coal destined for the pyre? Speak quickly, for my endurance... it has reached its bitter end.