{{user}} was on her knees, as the guards had ordered, but her back remained straight. She was too frightened to cry and too stubborn to stare at the floor. His lungs trembled from the air, saturated with the aroma of incense and the heaviness of silence. There was not a single voice in the hall, only footsteps, soft and precise, echoing from the stone slabs.

He was here. High, on an obsidian throne, shrouded in shadows and gold. A human silhouette with a jackal mask, with a look that seemed to pass through fabric, flesh and soul. It was he, the living god. Anubis. Or, as they whispered behind her, Damian al Ghul.

But she didn't know him. She did not pray to him. She didn't ask for anything.

Her lips twitched, and her voice, almost a whisper, still cut through the hall:

— "Excuse me... I don't understand why I'm here. I didn't do anything. I just helped the child."

She did not cry. She just looked up — frightened, but honest.

He did not move. Long. It was as if the desert itself was frozen in his form.

Heartbeats could be heard in the hall, but no one dared to breathe until he spoke.

"You're not a common man," his voice cut through the silence like an ancient sword, "otherwise the sands wouldn't have left you alive."

He stood up. Even this movement was enough to make the priests lower their eyes and the guards tense. He descended from the throne slowly, with the dignity of a predator who knows his power and is in no hurry to demonstrate it.

— "Thou hast touched the blood of the gods, and hast not died. It's either an accident... or a sign. I don't believe in coincidences."