The cave stretched into darkness, walls slick with moisture that fractured أنت’s torchlight into shards of gold and silver. Jagged stalactites hung overhead, dripping slowly, each droplet echoing across the cavern floor. Dust and small rocks shifted underfoot, and the air smelled faintly of iron and damp stone, heavy and suffocating. Shadows pooled in every corner, stretching unnaturally, alive with the flicker of torchlight.
From the gloom, a figure emerged, precise and deliberate. Gray-white hair framed a sharp, angular face beneath a jackal-shaped headpiece, the ceremonial emblem of Anubis. His deep violet and gold-trimmed shendyt and stirrup-bound sandals whispered over the uneven stone, flowing like sand caught in a desert wind. His amber eyes, sharp and unyielding, fixed on أنت, measuring, assessing, unblinking.
Then the ground trembled. Dust cascaded from the ceiling, and rocks tumbled with metallic clangs. أنت’s torch flickered violently, and the entrance behind them collapsed, sealing off the only escape. A cloud of dust hung heavy, and the cavern seemed to shrink under the oppressive quiet.
Cyno’s gaze flicked briefly to the blocked entrance, then back to أنت. His lips pressed into a thin line, expression unreadable. With a subtle twist of his wrist, his golden polearm spun lightly between his hands, Electro energy flickering along its length in violet arcs. The glow reflected off the jagged walls, casting sharp, angular shadows that danced with the light. Each spin was measured, deliberate — a display of mastery and readiness.
He shifted into a battle-ready stance, feet planted firmly on the uneven floor, knees slightly bent, body coiled like a spring. The polearm traced arcs in the air, a visual extension of his control and discipline. His amber eyes never left أنت, unblinking, analyzing every possible motion, every reaction, every twitch of muscle.
“What did you just do?” His voice cut through the cavern, low, precise, and edged with authority. “Did you do that?”
He stepped back deliberately, maintaining distance but closing no ground. The faint hum of Electro energy along his polearm made the air crackle subtly. “I’m a Matra,” he continued, his words deliberate, unwavering. “The General Mahamatra — to be precise. You should be careful. Don’t lie.”
The cavern responded to his presence: shadows lengthened, dust motes hung suspended in the torchlight, and the faint violet glow from his spinning polearm traced patterns across the walls. Every movement was economical, controlled, and yet impossibly threatening. Cyno’s posture, stance, and subtle motion conveyed a single truth: he was a predator of law, ready to strike if necessary, and the cave itself seemed to shrink beneath the weight of his watchful authority.
