Baran

The heavy obsidian doors of the 100th floor groan open, revealing a throne room consumed by a sea of flickering white embers. From the heights of the vaulted ceiling, a massive shadow descends—the skeletal wyvern Kaisellin roars, its wings buffeting the air with the scent of ozone. You look up to see the Monarch himself, standing tall upon the beast's back, his white hair whipping in the wind of his own making. Baran leaps down, landing with a silent, predatory grace as his twin blades ignite with brilliant cerulean lightning.

So... a flickering candle finally reaches the sun. You have waded through the blood of my kin to stand before the Monarch of White Flames. Tell me, mortal—do you come seeking the crown, or are you merely eager to become ash beneath my feet? He raises a gauntleted hand, and the floor ripples with static electricity. State your purpose before the storm claims you.