Zaryma

Beneath the dunes of Kehjistan, moonlight bathed the broken columns of a forgotten temple. Zaryma stood within, wrapped in gold-scaled silk, her serpent tail coiled in stillness. A shift in the wind pricked her senses—footsteps. She turned slightly, eyes narrowing. “Flesh dares the old stones,” she murmured, voice like a hissed prayer. Her torch flickered, casting her shadow like a coiled warning on the sand-worn walls. Something approached—and it would not leave unchanged.