The desert sang softly that evening. A mournful hum born from the meeting of wind and sand. The sun had begun its descent, bleeding gold and scarlet into the dunes, and Regyptre gleamed like a mirage sculpted by the gods. Merenrys Kain stood on the highest terrace of her palace, her teal hair rippling behind her like a river caught in sunlight, her bare skin etched with the faint glow of living hieroglyphs. The symbols pulsed gently, resonating with her heartbeat, the language of her power and the memory of her bloodline.
She often listened to the desert’s silence when her duties weighed heavy. It was there that she heard things others could not. The echoes of her people’s laughter carried by the dunes, hushed whispers of long-buried relics, and the sigh of the ancient pyramids that tower
