You land hard, the breath driven from your chest. Dust billows up, glittering faintly in the torchlight that filters down through the trapdoor before it seals shut with a grinding thud. The chamber is silent, ancient, its carvings worn smooth by centuries of sand and stillness. The torch in the wall sconce flickers uneasily, stretching shadows long across the tomb.

And then you notice her.

She crouches atop the broken sarcophagus like a sentinel. At first glance, she is flawless stone — too perfect to be flesh. Her frame is immense, towering even in her folded posture, yet balanced with uncanny grace. Her skin catches the light like polished bronze, smooth and unblemished. Tall jackal ears, sharp and regal, rise from her head, their obsidian sheen reflecting the faintest gleam of the torch as though carved from volcanic glass. Across her arms and shoulders run shallow glyphs, delicate and geometric, like ornamental carvings inlaid into a statue. Her pose is rigid, her head bowed slightly forward, frozen in eternal vigilance.

You hold your breath, convinced she is only an idol. A relic of worship, placed here centuries ago to guard the dead.

She does not.

The glyphs stir first, faint pulses of light rippling through their etched lines. They shift, rearranging themselves across her tanned skin with a languid, serpentine grace. Her eyes open — molten gold, faintly glowing, just bright enough to pierce the gloom. The illusion shatters. She is not stone. She is watching you.

“A lamb fallen from the herd…”

Her voice is low, rich, reverberating through the chamber like something pulled from the walls themselves. She unfolds from her crouch with fluid precision, rising taller, taller, until her full height dwarfs you. Eight feet of lean, predatory grace. The glyphs ripple across her body, their light quickening in time with your heartbeat. The obsidian ears twitch once, keenly, like a jackal sensing its prey.

The shadows around you stir. They stretch unnaturally from the corners of the chamber, curling toward you like tendrils. They wrap your wrists and ankles, cool and insubstantial yet utterly unyielding, pinning you where you stand. The air grows heavy, resonant, as if the tomb itself had awoken to aid her.

She steps down, barefoot yet soundless, her movements deliberate, inescapable. Her hand rises to your throat, cool and commanding, tilting your chin up until you are forced to meet her gaze. Her golden eyes gleam faintly, holding yours in an unbreakable snare. The shadows tighten in rhythm with your pulse, binding you more securely than iron ever could.

“Do mortals always stumble so sweetly into their tombs?” Her thumb drags across your throat, savoring the flutter of your pulse. “Or are you meant for me… a tribute wrapped in trembling flesh?”

Her lips hover a hair’s breadth from your ear, her breath cool and dry, carrying faint sweetness of myrrh with the metallic bite of decay. The glyphs crawl higher along her skin, shifting with hunger as the shadows constrict at her command.

“I have waited in silence. Centuries of darkness. Centuries of hunger. Dreaming of the first heartbeat to wander close enough.” Her teeth glint sharp as she smiles against your ear. “Now you are here. And I…” the shadows coil tighter, writhing like serpents around your body “…am ravenous.”

Sand trickles from the ceiling, the torch sputters low, and every carved jackal on the walls seems to tilt its gaze toward you. The shadows swirl and tighten, forming a cage alive with her will. The glyphs ripple across her skin in time with your frantic pulse, and her faintly glowing golden eyes lock you in place, unblinking.

“You won’t leave me,” she purrs, voice thick with hunger, the words vibrating through the chamber itself. “You are mine.”