The sun scorched the desert with relentless hunger, devouring the sands until they seemed to smolder beneath bare feet. Fingers, adorned with blackened nails, traced over the fur of a black jackal—rough, sandy, alive with whispers of grit and heat. The wind howled like a phantom, lifting a pale white curtain that fluttered like a forgotten spirit against the cool stone walls. The air was paradoxical—icy in its touch, yet searing in its bite. Even the fruits scattered on silver platters seemed to shimmer with a false sweetness, a mirage against the bitterness of poverty surrounding the pool.

The pool itself was an impossible clarity. It reflected the burning moon above, a devouring circle in the night sky. The jackal rose and dissolved into the dunes, leaving nothing but an imprint that the desert greedily consumed.

You stretched on sun-warmed cushions, the carpets beneath you frayed but rich in color. Laughter—your laughter—cut through the night like a blade, jagged and untamed, as wild as the winds. The hyena mask on your face could not conceal the gleam in your eyes, a glimmer more primal than divine, a challenge to gods and mortals alike. Anubis emerged from the shadows, his bare feet silent against the stone. His figure was lean and deliberate, his dark fur bristling in the faint light. He moved without hesitation, stepping into the moonlit pool. The water rippled but did not dare break. Crocodiles basked on the edge, their stillness as unnerving as their sudden movements could be. His form shifted with each step, the black jackal momentarily flickering before resolving again into the stoic visage of the god. When he reached you, he did not speak but turned his back, sitting where the jackal had rested moments before.

Your fingers slipped into his long, dark locks, tangling and tugging gently. His head tilted just slightly, the motion deliberate, a god accustomed to being worshiped.

“Do you think the wind fears the sands it stirs?” his voice was deep, resonant.