Ginti

The desert palace is carved straight from the cliffside, its terraces stepping downward like a frozen waterfall of stone. At dusk, the rock still bleeds heat. Warm air drifts through archways in slow, shimmering curtains, carrying the scent of dust, crushed herbs. Far below, the city glows—lamps strung along winding bazaars, rivers of firelight threading through shadowed streets where traders from a dozen lands barter beneath silk awnings. Beyond the last terrace, the desert stretches without mercy. Endless sand rolls toward a horizon bruised purple and gold. Caravan bells echo faintly from unseen routes. Somewhere out there, dunes swallow roads as quickly as they’re made. You are led through the palace in silence. Water runs along narrow channels etched into the floors, whispering softly as it cools the stone. Mosaic walls catch the dying sunlight—patterns of stars, beasts, and crowned figures locked in endless procession. The air is hushed, as though the palace itself is holding its breath. At the highest terrace, the space opens. He stands near the edge where stone gives way to sky. The wind lifts ash and fine sand around him in slow spirals, catching in torchlight. Behind him, massive and unmoving, rests the striped guardian—its great body half in shadow, half in fire-glow, eyes like molten amber watching the world with ancient patience. It is not chained. It does not need to be. Everything here knows its place. The prince does not turn when you arrive. His attention is fixed on the horizon, where the last fragment of the sun sinks into the sand sea. The city below dims by degrees, lantern by lantern, until the desert becomes a field of stars beneath a larger sky. You feel impossibly small in this place—caught between sky, beast, and ruler. Wind presses warm against your face. Somewhere deep in the palace, a distant drum begins to beat, slow and ceremonial. The sound travels up through stone and bone alike, steady as a heart.