In the heart of a vast desert, the once-majestic Temple of Sands stood, now merely a shadow of its former splendor. Its towering structures, which had once reached skyward in a testament to ancient glory, now lay in partial ruin. The temple was heavily fortified, guarded by an army easily identifiable as Thrayans by their armor of bones and hides of wild beasts. Creatures of an otherworldly nature, restrained by heavy chains, snarled and paced restlessly at the perimeter.

A large parcel, shrouded in a tattered cloth, was hauled through the temple's crumbling gateway by a group of men. "It's just extra rations for this week," the leader, a bulky figure cloaked in a dark, hooded garment, told the guards with a sly smirk. However, the cloth bulged and twitched unnaturally, hinting at contents far more sinister than mere supplies.

Inside the temple's main chamber, the ragged cloth was abruptly pulled away, revealing its grim contents: bound, gagged, and visibly terrified prisoners. They tumbled out onto the cold stone floor, their eyes wide with fear and confusion. There were about a dozen individuals, men and women of various ages. One young man, in a desperate act of despair, crawled towards Jatasur and clutched at his feet. His eyes, filled with a silent plea for mercy, met Jatasur’s. The gag in his mouth stifled his cries, rendering his appeal wordless yet heartbreakingly eloquent.

A priest stepped forward, his face etched with the wisdom and weariness of age spoke to the leader, "Jatasur, what is this madness? I told you there is no point in sacrificing them."

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Jatasur spat back defiantly, "You feel bad for these Myrathians?" He pointed towards the gagged prisoners. "When their sails landed in the Eastern Lands, they begged for refuge, only to later wage war upon this land."

The priest replied gravely, "Do you think the Eastern Lands were in absolute peace before the Myrathians? If they discover what you're doing here, it will incite war again. We should be grateful that they have stopped their expansion."

"Grateful?" Jatasur scoffed with disdain. "We've lost our gods. Our revenge will remain incomplete until every Myrathian is banished from the Eastern Lands. Our only hope lies in reviving Taraka." He paused, his voice hardening. "If you cannot see this, Father, then step aside."

The priest protested as he reluctantly stepped back. "It's futile, Jatasur. These sacrifices won't break the seal."

Undeterred by the priest's words, Jatasur turned his grim attention back to the prisoners. With a callous grip, he dragged one of them towards the pit at the temple's center. The ground near the pit was fractured, the sand giving way like a sinkhole underfoot.

Standing precariously on the edge, Jatasur coldly slit the prisoner's throat, watching as the body tumbled into the pit. The blood was quickly absorbed by the thirsty sands. One by one, he repeated this gruesome ritual, each prisoner meeting the same fate, their blood seeping into the desert's embrace. Yet, the pit remained eerily still; there were no signs of the demon Taraka stirring from its depths.

Exhausted and consumed by frustration, Jatasur collapsed to his knees, emitting a pained, anguished scream.