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Long before the temple stones fell into the valley dust, this skull watched over the inner chamber. It was said to belong to the last of the Watchers, the silent order that guarded the sealed doors beneath the mountain.
Travelers who found the entrance spoke of a single skull resting on raised stone, half-buried in ash. The sockets still held the shape of long-dead torchlight. The teeth, worn and uneven, looked as if they had once clenched against something the world was never meant to see. When the wind moved through the broken corridors, dust rose around it like breath.
Some called it a warning. Others a key. No one stayed long enough to decide.
Hand-crafted with a weathered surface, natural pitting, cracks, and uneven teeth as shown. The patina is part of its story.
