01 - The Sands of Time

Beneath the amber veil of dusk, where twilight begins to grow, Khensu sits by the window’s edge, watching the sun bestow Its fleeting warmth upon the earth, a fire soon to fade, And in its light, he sees his years like desert's breath cascade. The sands of time slip through his grasp, a stream he cannot bind, Each grain a moment lost to years, a tether left behind. His hands, once strong, now tremble faint, a truth he cannot feign, The mage who bent the world to will must bow to time’s domain. “What worth is power, endless might, if time consumes it all? What solace lies in wisdom gained, if death ensures my fall?” His voice, a drop of aching doubt, unravels in the night, As stars begin their solemn march across the heavens’ height. In tomes of leather, worn and cracked, he seeks the ancient lore, A thousand scripts scrawled in ink, paths none have walked before. His fingertips trace faded words, each line a spark anew, A flicker of forbidden hope to pierce the endless blue. The candles burn to pools of wax, yet still his vision stays, Upon the thoughts of elder minds, long lost to mortal days. Their ideas swirl within his thoughts, a siren’s haunting hymn, Promising the keys to break the cell enclosing him. Through sleepless nights and darkened halls, his study takes its toll, The flames within his aging frame now flickers like a coal. Yet desperation drives his hand, a force that will not yield, For in الموت's cold embrace, he sees his fate is sealed. “One spell,” he breathes, “to hold the tide, to still the river’s flow, One incantation wrought in blood, to shun the grave below.” His voice, though hoarse, bears strength anew, a vow etched in his core, To wrestle life from death’s cruel hands, and suffer fate no more. The moon ascends, a glowing wraith, casting a verdant silver, And Khensu’s shadow on the wall grows gaunt, begins to quiver. Yet in his eyes, a flame still burns, defiant in its gleam, For even as his body wanes, his soul still dreams. The air grows thick with whispered spells, a language dark and deep, Each word a thread to weave his fate, a tether he must keep. The stars align in spectral dance, the night a voiceless choir, As Khensu bends the arc of time, consumed by his desire.