Thamuz

Before the world had continents, before the oceans filled their basins, there was only fire. In the deepest chambers of the earth, where the rock itself flows like water and the heat is enough to unmake anything that was ever made, the first beings took shape — creatures of pure elemental force, born from the planet's own fury.

Thamuz is one of the last of them.

He does not remember the early age clearly — ten thousand years of memory blur together, the details lost in the heat haze of geological time. What he remembers is the slow cooling of the world, the encroachment of water and air and the soft, fragile creatures that came with them. He remembers retreating deeper, always deeper, as the surface became habitable for things that were not made of fire.

He remembers, with perfect clarity, the day the Abyss found him.

The demons of the Abyss were not the first to seek him out — over the millennia, many had come looking for the Lord of Lava, seeking to harness his power. All of them had failed. The Abyss succeeded not through force but through an offer: a place in a war that would reshape the world, a chance to burn again on the surface, to remind the soft creatures what the earth was before they arrived.

Thamuz accepted. He fights for the Abyss not out of loyalty but out of appetite — the appetite of something ancient and elemental that has been dormant too long. His twin scythes, forged from the same primordial fire that made him, leave trails of lava wherever they swing. His presence alone raises the temperature of the battlefield by several degrees.

He does not hate his enemies. He barely notices them. He is fire. They are fuel.