Lion Head Mesa Medjay

It was already colder.

Bayek sniffed at the edge of the mesa. His shrewd stare picked out landmarks at a distance, but he was wise enough not to tread so close to their clear markings. The man thought it was impressive. It was nothing like his homeland, that was certain. Where he had been raised on sand and brush, endless skies of blue and darkest nights, this mesa was rising stone and glimmering oases.

A fitting palace for a Pharaoh, if there ever was one.

The Medjay called for a meeting upon the border. Amethyst eyes were watchful, waiting.