Rastakhan

Rewind the clock—half a day earlier.

King Rastakhan and Prophet Zul were ascending the grand golden staircase of Darotha toward the Golden Seat. And no, this wasn't some serene royal stroll—it was more like two old warriors trudging toward a volcano that was actively erupting.

"The blood trolls are swarming like roaches in a sugar barrel. This level of unrest—unprecedented!" Rastakhan growled, jaw clenched and royal robes swishing with every heavy step. His expression was thundercloud-dark, the kind a general wears after losing twelve strongholds in a row. And losing twelve strongholds hurts. A lot.

"Your Majesty," Zul puffed, a half-step behind and wheezing like a bag of haunted bellows, "Hex Lord Lal is already on the front lines, slapping skulls. You even pulled Princess Talanji back from Vol'dun and sent her straight into the Nazmir meat grinder. With Loa's blessing, we'll crush those heretics into paste before sundown!"

Rastakhan didn't answer at first. His golden eyes flickered with unease. The kind of look that said something stinks—and it wasn't just Zul's incense-soaked robes.

"I hope you're right..." he muttered, then paused, frowning. "Zul, the northern front collapsed like wet parchment. Don't tell me the prophecies failed to give you a heads-up again?"

Zul's eyes twitched. "Ah... well, Your Majesty, the visions were... um... unclear."

Right on cue, before Zul could finish crafting a proper excuse, a loud THWACK! shattered the conversation. Something heavy hit the floor with a sickening crack.

Rastakhan turned, startled—and froze.

Habtu, his loyal guard, the King's Shield, lay face-down on the gold-tiled platform, a dagger plunged into his chest like a punctuation mark from the Void itself.

"No—Habtu!" Rastakhan choked out, his voice rising into a shout of horror. His gaze darted up to the attacker—and his heart nearly stopped.

It was Yazma.

Yes, Yazma, priestess of the spider Loa Shadra, was standing over the corpse with that "Oops, did I do that?" look only traitors and demon-summoners have perfected. And she was still holding the blade.

She betrayed the Zandalari.

"You snake!" Rastakhan roared, pointing in pure royal fury. "Seize her! That's treason!"

But before a single guard could move, pain like a red-hot poker seared through his waist.

A knife. A literal knife in the back.

Rastakhan gasped. His legs buckled, strength draining like ale from a cracked keg. He collapsed, coughing blood and confusion.

"YOUR MAJESTY!" screamed Zorani, the King's Sword, dashing to his side. Her blade was already half-drawn when she realized what had happened—and it hit like a meteor.

The stabber was none other than Zul, the Prophet.

The man he trusted. The man he elevated. The man currently holding a blood-stained dagger like he'd just won the Void Lottery.

"Oh no you didn't…" Zorani whispered, backing toward the king protectively while mentally calling her raptor like her life depended on it—which, spoiler alert: it did.

Zul, with the theatrical flair of a madman giving his final villain monologue, stepped up to the fallen king, lips curled into a smug sneer.

"My beloved king," he hissed, "you should have listened to Talanji. You grew complacent. You strangled the Empire with tradition and pride. But I—I have seen the future! And I will bring Zandalar into a new age—an age of Twilight... and blood!"

He snapped his fingers dramatically. Void magic exploded around him in purple-black tendrils, swirling like a hurricane of nightmares.

"But we're not gonna grovel to Loa anymore! No more deals, no more whispered prayers—we serve the Void now!" he bellowed, raising his hands for a final spell that would finish Rastakhan and anyone else in the room stupid enough to blink.

And then—ROAAAAAARRR!

Like a divine punchline from the gods themselves, Zorani's raptor mount burst through the chamber like a feathered battering ram. The echoing shriek shook the golden walls and knocked Zul's spell clean off its trajectory.

Before anyone could scream "Dino ex machina," the beast lunged with one mighty claw, scooped up both Zorani and the dying king, and leapt off the royal platform like a champion in a high-speed raptor chase movie.

The creature soared northeast across Zuldazar, a blur of fangs and feathers. Eventually, it landed in a sleepy fishing village on the coast: Zeb'ari. Home to the tortollans—and yes, they were exactly as weird and wise as you'd expect.

Zorani had picked Zeb'ari for one reason: a tortollan named Joel, a crusty old alchemist who brewed potions like soup and smelled of seaweed and wisdom. He was the best shot at saving the king.

But tortollans were outsiders, and politics were still a thing. So, just to be safe, Zorani also summoned a royal physician under the radar.

Rastakhan's injury? Not just a wound—no, this was a spiritual gut punch, betrayal forged into a blade and driven straight through his legacy. The dagger had gone deep, piercing his back and out through his stomach, and worse—Void magic had left a dark rot around the soul.

For three long days, Joel and the royal physician worked nonstop. Potions were flung, prayers were whispered, and somewhere in the chaos, a chicken exploded. Finally, they stabilized him.

But Rastakhan didn't wake up.

That's when the physician pulled Zorani aside, pale as ghostly linen, and whispered the truth: The king's soul had slipped into the shadow of Bwonsamdi.

It was bad. Very bad.

But there was hope.

Rastakhan, royal blood of Zandalar, had forged a sacred pact with Rezan, the Loa of kings. His soul wasn't truly Bwonsamdi's yet. It lingered in limbo, waiting to be pulled back.

And so Zorani, battle-hardened and exhausted, squared her shoulders, gritted her teeth, and said the only thing a true Zandalari warrior could say:

"Fine. Let's go drag a king's soul outta Death's living room."