Lion Head Mesa ساخط khasara

akashingo silhouetted by the setting sun. the cool breath of evening settling across the steppe as they climbed, swift, silent, until the palace was in view. jawahir slunk through the deepening shadow and with a twist, entered the subterranean halls.
along the corridor they crept. the air was still—there was no laughter from the pharaoh's quarters.
as jawahir passed the ascendant's chosen sleeping place, they took care not to look towards the watchful guard, nor stray too close.
the desire to see someone familiar brought the mumis to maggie's door. the stench of sickness was fading; their tall ears shifted with unease, but there was no sign of breath. gone?
tight-lipped and grimacing, jawahir thought to move on, and yet lingered.