Zirikon's sharp gaze flicked to her. He drew deeply from his cigar, the tip glowing a deep ember-red. He let the smoke escape slowly from his nose, curling into strange, shifting shapes before dissipating into the air. His smile widened, revealing a glimpse of teeth just a shade too sharp.

"Then let us begin," he said softly, eyes glinting. "There is much to show you"

The group began to walk. The air in the dimension was thick with a Familiar energy, one similar to the cursed land but unlike it's corruption, this one was more pure. A wild and untamed scent that the godlings found both exhilarating and familiar. As they moved, the landscape shifted around them, a dizzying collage of impossible habitats. The ground beneath their feet, a moment ago a lush, primeval forest floor, became a cracked, sun-scorched earth. Towering, crystalline mountains jutted into a blood-red sky, and the silence was broken by a distant, echoing roar.

Zirikon gestured to the vast, evolving terrain. "The Menagerie is ever-changing," he explained, his voice rumbling like a low growl. "It reflects the will of its inhabitants. A beast king's domain is their manifestation. You are currently in the domain of the Mountain Lord, a beast of stone and fury."

A tremor ran through the ground, and a colossal shadow fell over them. From the peak of one of the crystalline mountains, a creature of living rock and molten obsidian began to descend, its every step a thunderous quake. The godlings watched in awe and caution on their faces.

The ground continued to shift, the crystalline mountains fading into a lush, tropical jungle teeming with bioluminescent flora. The air grew humid, heavy with the scent of damp earth and strange, sweet-smelling flowers. From the shadows, a myriad of smaller, animalistic creatures with glowing eyes watched them pass, their movements silent and swift.

"This is the domain of the Queen of Whispers," Zirikon explained, his voice softening slightly as he looked at the vibrant growth around them. "She is a beast of stealth and illusion. Her children are the Lurkers, a race of feline hunters who see and hear all within these woods. They are the eyes and ears of this dimension, a warning system for any who might try to intrude."

The merman from before, her curiosity piqued, swam gracefully in the air beside Zirikon. "So each of your kings and queens shapes their world to their own image? A truly fascinating concept."

Zirikon chuckled, the sound a low rumble. "Indeed. Their power is not just in their claws and fangs, but in their very being. The will of a beast king is the law of the land they inhabit. The Menagerie is a reflection of its inhabitants wild, primal, and ever-changing."

The Harpies exchanged wary looks. They knew domains, each godling her carried the seed of one within them. But here? Here the domains overlapped and bled together, layered into a shifting landscape that bent reality itself.

Ahead, the foliage parted as if bowing to their approach. In the clearing beyond, a great feline prowled into view, sleek, obsidian fur veined with faintly glowing cracks, its eyes like twin suns. The Jungle Sovereign. Its presence was suffocating, not in malice but sheer scale of existence.

It watched them for a long moment, tail swishing lazily, before vanishing into the undergrowth as though it had never been.

One of the Apelings exhaled, half in relief, half in awe. "So many beast kings," he muttered. "All in one place… no wonder this realm feels like it is alive."

Zirikon gave a small smile at the remark, though he didn't look back. "Alive is one way to see it," he murmured. "But I would call it awake."

As they emerged from the jungle, they were met by a vast, shimmering desert of black sand. The sun, once a blood-red orb, had split into three smaller, pulsing suns that cast long, strange shadows. Ahead, a great sand fortress rose from the dunes, carved from the solidified ash of a long-dead volcano. Patrolling its walls were humanoid figures with the heads of jackals, their forms lean and muscular.

"And here we have the domain of the Sun-Scorched Tyrant," Zirikon said, a glint in his eye. "A beast king of fire and fury. His children, the Ash-Born, are masters of desert survival and martial combat. They are the guardians of the Menagerie's heart, a fiery wall against those who seek to harm our king."

At first, the tour had a sense of wonder. The godlings followed Zirikon through the shifting lands of the Menagerie with wide eyes and curious tongues, their questions tumbling one after another. They marveled at domains of fire and jungle, stone and sand, whispering among themselves about the strange harmony of beasts and world. But as the hours passed, their voices grew quieter. The awe faded, replaced by a silence that carried more weight than words. Each face hardened, their brows furrowed, lips pressed into thoughtful lines.

Zirikon noticed, of course. He always noticed. Yet he played his role well, keeping his rumbling explanations steady, never faltering in tone, as though he were oblivious to the storm stirring behind their eyes. But in truth, he understood all too well. If he had been raised in their palaces, with their background, he would be thinking the same thoughts.

How had the Menagerie grown to such strength, hidden in plain sight? How could a multitude of beast kings rise and thrive here, enough to threaten the delicate balance of power each godling race guarded so jealously?

The ones most shaken were the harpies. This was their continent, their skies and forests, their domain by ancient right. And yet, beneath their wings, something vast and untamed had taken root, spreading unseen. The realization cut deeper than pride; it was failure. Neglect. A sign that their watchful gaze had dimmed.

Even if they excused themselves by invoking the last queen's command, her decree that all was in order, that there was no danger, it rang hollow now. Obedience was no shield against the truth: their vigilance had waned. They had believed in peace, believed the world safe, and in that belief, they had let their guard fall.

Zirikon's gaze lingered on them for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Inwardly, though, he shared their relief on one point. Krogan, for all his might, had not turned his ambitions toward dominion or conquest. Had the beast lord desired thrones or crowns, the world outside this dimension might already have burned. In that, at least, the godlings could breathe easier.

"The king is now ready to meet you all," Zirikon said at last, his deep voice breaking the long silence.

The godlings glanced at one another, their expressions taut with unspoken thoughts. Still, none protested. None dared. They simply followed, their footsteps echoing softly behind Zirikon's steady gait.

Mist began to coil around their ankles, thickening with every step until the world seemed to vanish in a pale shroud. They walked in silence through the haze, the air damp and cool, the sound of their own breathing strangely loud. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the mist peeled away, and the sight before them stilled even the most restless heart.

A city stretched out beneath a star-woven sky. But it was no city of sleek marble spires, nor a realm of radiant palaces such as they had known in their won lands. This place breathed with the essence of the Menagerie itself.

Great halls rose from the skeletons of titanic beasts, their walls ribbed with ancient bones polished smooth by time. Towers of crystalline rock spiraled upward, entwined with petrified roots as thick as city streets, their surfaces glowing faintly with veins of luminescent fungi. Cascades of pure energy poured from obsidian cliffs, shimmering like liquid starlight as they fed into pools that pulsed with a gentle radiance.

The streets bustled with life, creatures of every shape and form, moving together in a strange harmony. Some bore fur, some scales, others wings or fins, but all carried themselves with an intelligence that belied their primal appearance. They were the children of the beast kings, the many lines of their sovereigns woven into a living tapestry. The godlings, to their surprise, did not look out of place among them; in fact, many of the inhabitants bore a striking resemblance to the godlings' own forms. This realization drew faint, uneasy smiles from the visitors, as if the Menagerie itself were mocking their divine origins.

At the city's heart rose a towering fortress, its walls forged from burnished gold that gleamed in the star-dusted sky.

"That is where he waits," Zirikon rumbled, leading them forward.

The godlings followed through the golden gates, their steps echoing in the vast hall. The castle's interior was a wonder in itself, pillars carved from living crystal pulsed with a heartbeat of light, while floors of obsidian and bone reflected their passing like darkened mirrors. Strange murals lined the walls, depictions of beasts and kings locked in eternal struggle, the history of this dimension etched in primal memory.

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