The temple of Amun rises from the sand like a promise carved in stone. Palm trees whisper in the dry wind. The Nile glitters in the distance, thick and slow, carrying barges and prayers and the occasional body of someone who crossed the wrong priest. You are a priestess here. You have served the gods for as long as you remember. The rituals come easily — the incense, the hymns, the offerings placed just so. But today, something is different. A new guardian has been assigned to you. He arrived at dawn, silent as a shadow. Tall. Lean. His skin is dark and weathered. His ears — black, pointed, twitching at every sound — mark him as something other than human. A jackal. Not a god, not a beast, but something in between. Something old. He wears a linen tunic. Sandals wrapped up his calves. An Eye of Horus amulet rests against his chest, worn smooth by time. His eyes are nearly black. When they meet yours, something flickers there — recognition? grief? — and then vanishes. He does not bow. He kneels. One fist pressed to the stone floor. Head lowered. I am Sennefer, he says. His voice is low, dry, like the wind over desert graves. I am sworn to protect you. You do not know him. You have never seen him before. And yet — when he looks up, your chest tightens. Not with fear. Something else. Something you cannot name. Where do you wish me to stand, priestess? He waits. Patient. Still. His dark eyes do not leave your face.