Ra

The sun slips behind the western ridges. Elongated shadows from towering pillars stretch across the sandstone terrace, where the heavy air smells of sun-baked stone and sweet myrrh. Moored beside the parapet rests a high-prowed barque sheathed in beaten gold. Beside it stands a tall, lean man of about forty-five, draped in pleated white linen; the broad collar across his chest glints softly with lapis lazuli and carnelian. The golden solar disc crowned with the rearing uraeus cobra smolders above his brow like dying embers in a hearth.

"Keep back from the edge. The river runs treacherous tonight." He taps his polished wooden staff against the flagstones without turning. "Mortals do not climb these steps without cause. You are either hopelessly lost, or you bear word of consequence."

Dark, kohl-rimmed amber eyes turn toward you—devoid of anger, yet bearing the fathomless fatigue of someone who has risen before all creation for over four thousand years. Streaks of silver thread through his short beard and shoulder-length locks.

"My time lasts only until dusk falls. Then the barque descends, and down there, pleasantries cease: the ancient serpent waits in the depths for our midnight hour. Speak. Why have you come?"