Two Eyes Cenote pétalo

“Khusobek?” Echoes off the ceiling in a voice raw with concern. She stands at the door to the prison, gaze first finding the mazoi's, then flicking to the half-coy jailed in their cells.

The smell of sweat drenches the air, thick as tar. Dimmed are the stranger's eyes in the half-light, his chin dropped against the slope of his back.

She pads alongside the red guard, asking in lowered tones, “who is this man?”