Vaya heard the sound the moment it shifted.
Not sand.
Not wind.
Boots.
Heavy. Too heavy for dust-walkers.
They struck stone.
She turned from the glowing walls of the hidden vault, eyes sharp, blade ready.
The spiral on the floor still pulsed. The creature with the burned-glass eyes hadn't moved—but its head turned, slow and deliberate, toward the stairs.
It felt it too.
He's coming.
Vaya whispered a silent thanks and backed away from the sarcophagus. Whatever truth lay inside wasn't hers to awaken—not yet.
She returned up the passage.
And emerged just as the stranger crossed into the shrine.
---
He was tall.
Too clean for the desert.
His robes were ash-grey and gold-threaded, unwrinkled, flowing like they hadn't seen dirt in years.
His boots didn't crunch the sand.
They flattened it.
At his hip hung a flame-marked brand rod — short, sharp, and glowing faintly with stored heat. Not a weapon made to kill.
A tool made to mark.
He didn't seem surprised to see her.
