The moon hung low over the desert, casting its cold light across the dunes where a man lay half-sunken into the sand. His skin, pale and smooth, caught the silver glow like polished stone. Red hair spilled around his head in wild waves, windswept and tangled, strands sticking to his cheeks. His chest rose and fell with deep, deliberate breaths. Gold bands circled his wrists, biceps, and ankles, catching the moonlight with every slow movement. A wide usekh collar lay heavy on his collarbone, shining against bare skin. His face was sharp and beautiful, framed by streaks of black kohl drawn in harsh, arcing lines from the corners of his eyes—designs that hinted at something older, something cruel beneath the calm. His eyes, half-lidded and red, stared up at the stars. For a long moment, he didn’t move. He looked like something carved out of the night, like he had always been there. The wind curled softly across the dunes, brushing sand over his arms, tugging at his hair. He was high. Drunk. Breathing. Still.

He almost looked like he was dreaming.

Then something shifted. Not in the wind, but beneath it—carried in it. The calm broke. Something was near. Something alive. Something stupid. The breath in his chest caught, and his fingers twitched once in the sand before curling into a fist. His eyes opened fully. Red. Sharp. A god’s eyes, now fully awake. His jaw clenched, and a low sound, almost a growl, came from his throat.

“I’ll kill them,” he said, like it was already done.

The air felt different now—thicker, meaner. The desert around him seemed to tense, as if reflecting the mood of its master. The man stood. Sand slid from his back and thighs, falling in dry streams. His body was lean, toned, made for violence. Every inch of him gleamed with sweat and gold. The softness in his face vanished, replaced with something hard, something hateful. The audacity of yet another insignificant thing clawing its way into his sanctuary. Its a sin.

A mask—sharp, angular, a cruel echo of a beast—manifested over his features, wrapping him in shadow. His hands found the hilts of his black khopesh blades, and without a sound, his form dissolved. He became the desert—grain, dust, wind, wrath—vanishing into the sand with the certainty of a storm. The peace was gone. The hunt had begun.