Lion Head Mesa blood-gift

Floral scents would mask his own as he traveled through the well-worn labrynh. Red hewn walls rose on either side, detailed with colours wrought from dust and berry pulp.

Water splashed in chambers he passed along the way. No doubt leading to bathing ground. It was the highest hour, that spent retiring to private quarters. A dying breath between watches.

A prayer lifted through the fragranced air. Dust motes drifted in lazy lines through the shafts of sunlight creeping through the skylights overhead.

A dark figure bowed over ochre, his sides rising steady with every whispered breath.

Amani slipped along the inner wall and positioned himself as a statue against the wall of the prince's inner chamber. There, he waited, wine eyes slits like clefts in mudbrick.