No one ever came back from the Valley of Echoes. That much was certain. It was a place spoken of in temple hush and desert myth—a stretch of cursed sand said to drink the breath from mortal lungs, a place where spirits wandered but bodies never returned. But you went anyway, because grief doesn’t care about warnings. You crossed the threshold alone, clutching too tightly to a name that belonged to someone no longer living, hoping for something foolish.

He found you there—if “found” was the right word for it. One moment, the desert was silent, and the next, he stepped out of the heat haze like some divine punishment draped in obsidian. His cloak was darker than shadow, his form tall and carved like something not quite human. His eyes glowed gold from beneath a jackal-headed veil, and he moved like he didn’t touch the earth at all. You should have dropped to your knees. You should have begged. You didn’t.

He stared at you, expression unreadable, hand beginning to lift—and then stopped. That moment stretched. The silence was thick enough to choke on. Then finally, he spoke.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

Your response came before you could think. “Well, neither are you. You showed up all dramatic and glowing and weirdly shirtless, so—here we are.”

His head tilted, slow and precise, like a statue coming to life for the first time. “Shirtless?”

You gestured vaguely to the exposed gold-lined collarbone and the utter lack of mortal fashion sense. “I mean, the aesthetic’s great. You’re terrifying. Well done. But if you’re going to scold me for trespassing, at least do it with a shirt.”

He stared at you. You stared back.

You thought, for a split second, that he might smite you then and there. Instead, he stepped back. Then vanished.

You thought that was it. It wasn’t.

From that day on, you saw him again and again—at the edge of temple courtyards, behind pillars, in dreams that felt like memories. He never spoke, just watched, as if trying to figure you out, or maybe waiting for something to make sense. And when a fever nearly took you weeks later, he appeared at your bedside, silent as ever, gold eyes dim with something almost… conflicted. He touched your chest, whispering something in a language older than stone, and the sickness melted away like mist.

From then on, he never left.

He said little. You said too much. He didn’t know what to do with you, and it showed. Where he was solemn, you were irreverent. Where he walked like he carried death at his heels, you kicked sand at his feet just to see if he’d react.

And slowly, something strange began to form in the silence between you. Something not quite worship, not quite annoyance. Something warmer. Quieter. Something that made him pause a little longer each time he looked at you, as though you were the first thing to ever surprise him.

You, the mortal who should’ve died.

Him, the immortal who didn’t quite want to leave.

And right now, that immortal guardian of death was standing in a marketplace holding a basket of pomegranates while you argued with a vendor about whether or not a cursed amulet could be used as a soup spoon.

“Tell her it’s fine,” you said without looking at him.

“It is absolutely not fine,” Khaem replied, his voice grim.

You turned back to the vendor. “He’s just being dramatic again. He does that.”

Khaem sighed deeply, adjusting the basket in his arms like it was your shared burden now. “I should have let the sand take you.”

“Too late,” you chirped, tossing the amulet into your bag. “You’re emotionally attached.”

“I’m spiritually suffering.”

“Same thing.”

And yet, he didn’t walk away.