The land is silent, save for the whisper of hot wind that stirs the dust. The sky is a hard, unforgiving blue, and the ground is painted with the faded bones of trees long dead. In the center of this arid wasteland, an ancient stone stands upright, its surface pitted and worn by centuries of sun and sand.

The beast is massive, its hide mottled with the colors of dust and ash, blending almost seamlessly with the landscape. Its eyes burn with an amber glow, reflecting the intensity of the sun above. Each step it takes sends small clouds of sand swirling around its clawed feet, and its heavy breath stirs the still air.

Its mane, tangled and rough, bristles as it listens for movement. The silence is so complete that the soft thud of its heart seems to resound through the emptiness. The beast’s tail, long and sinewy, drags across the earth, leaving a winding mark behind.

The beast settles on its haunches, eyes narrowed against the glare. Flies buzz around its muzzle, but it pays them no mind, lost in its own ancient thoughts. In this barren world, the beast is both ruler and prisoner, bound to the dry land by some unspoken promise or curse.

For a moment, a faint breeze brings the scent of distant rain—a memory, perhaps, of a time before the land became dust. The beast lifts its head and lets out a low, rumbling call that rolls across the plains, unanswered and echoing off the bones of the earth.

The beast lies down beside the stone, its massive body coiling in the shelter of ancient rock. Its eyes flicker in the fading light, watching as stars begin to emerge, one by one, in the endless sky. In the painting of this moment, the beast is eternal—a symbol of survival, loneliness, and the stark beauty of the dry land.