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Medja
A cold wind stired the dunes beneath a sky heavy with stars as the moon cast a silver glow across the sprawling landscape. In the darkness, a line of sand elves moved in silence, their silhouettes rippling like ghosts across the sand-encrusted ground. The only sound was the soft crunch of their leather-wrapped feet and the strained creak of their harnesses as they carried the strange sarcophagus between them.
It gleamed faintly in the moonlight, an object clearly foreign. The design was alien — angular ridges, snarling beast-heads, shields marked with indecipherable crests — and though the desert-born elves were used to ancient relics buried in forgotten tombs, this one feelt… wrong. Its surface was cool to the touch, even in the chill night air, and the carvings seemed to shift unpredictably when viewed from the corner of the eye.
Ahead, the palace rose from the earth like a forgotten titan’s tomb — not a fortress of columns and statues, but a massive ziggurat, its sides steep and angular, each tier lit with flickering braziers that cast dancing shadows up the stone face. The steps seemed endless, rising layer by layer into the dark sky.
Hieroglyphs shimmered with faint phosphorescence along the walls, and great statues of falcon-headed beasts stood watch, their eyes glowing faintly, illuminating the great many vines and bushes dotting the man-made construct.
The elves passed through the towering gates, shadows among shadows. No words were spoken. They’ve been told to treat the artifact with reverence, though none understood its purpose.
Their steps echoed as they descended a spiraling ramp into the palace’s heart, past chambers lined with obsidian jars and murals of forgotten rituals.
Steadily, they lowered the sarcophagus onto a slab of polished marble, its carved lions seeming to snarl in the flickering torchlight.
The sarcophagus sat in silence on the slab, but its presence filled the chamber like a rising tide. The elves stood nearby, arms crossed or hands resting nervously on the hilts of their curved blades, eyes flicking back to the uncanny construct again and again.
One of them, a younger elf named Jyoti, shifted uncomfortably and muttered under his breath, “It’s still humming. You hear that, right? That low sound, like it’s... breathing?”
An older elf, Kalkan, gave him a glance. “Stop listening to it. Keep your mind on the job.”
Jyroti rubbed his neck, looking away. “I’ve carried relics from tombs older than the dunes themselves. None of them ever felt like they were watching me.”
A third joined in, her name Amrune. She sneered derisively.
"Her highness will have our hides if anything happens to the sarcophagus. So, which do you fear more, her enmity or some stupid humming?"
A cold wind stired the dunes beneath a sky heavy with stars as the moon cast a silver glow across the sprawling landscape. In the darkness, a line of sand elves moved in silence, their silhouettes rippling like ghosts across the sand-encrusted ground. The only sound was the soft crunch of their leather-wrapped feet and the strained creak of their harnesses as they carried the strange sarcophagus between them.
It gleamed faintly in the moonlight, an object clearly foreign. The design was alien — angular ridges, snarling beast-heads, shields marked with indecipherable crests — and though the desert-born elves were used to ancient relics buried in forgotten tombs, this one feelt… wrong. Its surface was cool to the touch, even in the chill night air, and the carvings seemed to shift unpredictably when viewed from the corner of the eye.
Ahead, the palace rose from the earth like a forgotten titan’s tomb — not a fortress of columns and statues, but a massive ziggurat, its sides steep and angular, each tier lit with flickering braziers that cast dancing shadows up the stone face. The steps seemed endless, rising layer by layer into the dark sky.
Hieroglyphs shimmered with faint phosphorescence along the walls, and great statues of falcon-headed beasts stood watch, their eyes glowing faintly, illuminating the great many vines and bushes dotting the man-made construct.
The elves passed through the towering gates, shadows among shadows. No words were spoken. They’ve been told to treat the artifact with reverence, though none understood its purpose.
Their steps echoed as they descended a spiraling ramp into the palace’s heart, past chambers lined with obsidian jars and murals of forgotten rituals.
Steadily, they lowered the sarcophagus onto a slab of polished marble, its carved lions seeming to snarl in the flickering torchlight.
The sarcophagus sat in silence on the slab, but its presence filled the chamber like a rising tide. The elves stood nearby, arms crossed or hands resting nervously on the hilts of their curved blades, eyes flicking back to the uncanny construct again and again.
One of them, a younger elf named Jyoti, shifted uncomfortably and muttered under his breath, “It’s still humming. You hear that, right? That low sound, like it’s... breathing?”
An older elf, Kalkan, gave him a glance. “Stop listening to it. Keep your mind on the job.”
Jyroti rubbed his neck, looking away. “I’ve carried relics from tombs older than the dunes themselves. None of them ever felt like they were watching me.”
A third joined in, her name Amrune. She sneered derisively.
"Her highness will have our hides if anything happens to the sarcophagus. So, which do you fear more, her enmity or some stupid humming?"
