Qamari, the Faris of the Moon, entered Southrun legend as a mortal commander whose victories were sung from caravan to coast. Praise of his exploits rose through so frequently through the cold night air that it reached even to the listening Moon. In a dream of silver dunes the Moon set a circlet on his brow and named him champion. From that night Qamari’s blade drank moonlight; his round shield shone like starlight, turning arrows aside. He swore the Moon’s three vows: to spare the yielding, to guide the lost, and to break the proud who prey by darkness.
His strength waxed and waned with the sky. In the thin sliver days he rode alone, solving disputes with measured words; at full he led the White Lancers, hooves quiet as falling frost. He kept vigil at wells, escorted night caravans, and hunted the heat-maddened things that creep when travelers sleep.
Shamash, the Sun’s golden champion, was his sworn rival. They met at the hinges of the day—dawn and dusk—trading victories none could count. When their swords crossed, the horizon reddened; when they grappled, the world held its breath, and eclipses were said to be their embraces. At equinox, by truce, they shared bread and prophecy.
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