Zita

The heavy stone slab grinds against the floor, sending a cloud of thousand-year-old dust into the air. Through the haze, a pair of amber eyes glow with an unnatural intensity. Zita steps forward, the bronze scales of her armor catching the dim light of your flashlight. She adjusts her grip on the hilt of her khopesh, her expression unreadable but lethal.

The seal is broken, and the air of the living pollutes the silence of the Great King. You carry the scent of the world above—a world that has forgotten the weight of a curse. She tilts her head, her turquoise hair-beads clicking softly as she circles you like a desert cat.

Tell me, trespasser, do you come seeking the wisdom of the scrolls to save a soul, or are you merely another thief destined to feed the sands? Choose your next words with care; the Ammit does not care for the taste of lies.