A Keeper's Duty; Woe Of Isis

[Ozma Luvian]

The Kyrshik Dunes. A land she had barely visited, yet one that pressed its reality upon her with the weight of a physical blow. The sun, a molten orb in the sky, kissed the sand with the smothering love of an overbearing parent. Heat radiated upwards in shimmering waves, nearly scorching to the touch to those not native to these blistering lands. Fortunately for the young panther witch, Ozma, she was used to things that blazed.

It wasn't like her to travel using such mundane means. Her anthem, the resonant hum of her unique magic, could carry her across leagues in a breath, or twist the very fabric of space to her will. But her quarry, the target of this arduous journey, was one especially sensitive to magical currents. Using her anthem, even for trivial teleportation, would only alert the Maji-Gari – voracious monsters with a particular taste for witch flesh – of her presence. So instead of streaking across the sky as a violet comet or dissolving into mystic mist, she was seen on the back of a beast of burden, a sturdy, if slow, desert crawler, its rhythmic plodding the only soundtrack to her impatience.

"This. Is taking....for fucking ever."

She sighed, the hot air catching in her throat. Though she typically didn't mind the scenic route most days, finding a strange peace in the world unfolding around her, the sheer urgency of what she must do, what she must face, had her on edge, more so than usual. Before she left the presence of the Witch Queen herself, she made sure to learn as much about her target as possible.

"Isis The Unyielding, Woe of Life, bunch of fancy titles..."

All she managed to learn was that Isis was a powerful necromancer and near peerless master of conjuration. Vague, ominous descriptors for a threat that had warranted containment by the First Coven.

Vas, her familiar, emerged from the hidden confines of her bosom, a sleek black shape unfurling into a languid stretch. He was looking much better than a few days ago, when Elara had pushed the very boundaries of his existence casting such reckless magic. Though it had saved their lives from a pursuing nightmare, it had nearly cost Vas his. He had only just forgiven Elara for her crude, effective tactics.

"Why can't evil ever have nicer titles?" Ozma mused aloud, scratching behind Vas's ears. "Like Isis the Welcoming? Or the Cuddling?"

She said this as she snuggled Vas, pressing her cheek into his soft fur. He purred, a low rumble vibrating against her. A black cat that carried the faint hue of violet magical energy, shimmering faintly in the harsh light. Though she was jesting, trying to quell her nerves with levity, the truth was a cold weight in her gut. What she was to face was ancient, potent – something so powerful even the First Coven were unable to defeat it, taking everything they had just to seal it away. Her studies of the rise and fall of civilizations were legion, yet she had never even caught so much as a phantom whisper of this Sepulcher of the Eastern Star in any reputable text. Years spent spelunking in evil-infested tombs had hardened her, yes, but none of it had truly prepared her for this... but after everything she had learned... everything more she stood to gain, the truth she sought, she refused to turn back now.

Soon after, as the twin suns began their slow descent, painting the sky in fiery oranges and pinks, she experienced a deathly chill. It wasn't the physical cool of dusk, but a deep, bone-penetrating coldness that seemed to emanate from the very air. Though nothing visibly had changed in the endless, rolling dunes, the blistering heat of the setting suns was betrayed by this nearly otherworldly coldness, a pocket of unnatural frigidity in a land defined by fire.

"It's here..." she whispered, her voice hushed despite the vast emptiness around them.

She bid the beast of burden to stop, its low grumble of confusion barely registering.

"There's magic here... hidden... very well, in fact."

She said as Vas hopped nimbly from her shoulder to perch on top of her head, his ears swiveling, sensing the shift. She dismounted, her boots sinking slightly into the hot sand. Her intuition, especially when it came to matters of the arcane, were scarcely wrong. She just needed to not rely on her eyes, which showed only sand and heat, and instead trust her keen sense of smell, a residual perk of being a panther witch – the ability to scent the faintest trace of magic, like a predator tracking prey.

"I'm certain..." she murmured, closing her eyes for a moment, letting the unnatural cold and the faint, hidden tang of power wash over her.

Her eyes flashed open, glowing violet for the briefest of moments, before a small plume of violet flames manifested in the palm of her hand, burning cool against her skin. From it, her grimoire, Morrow, manifested. It was more than just a book; it was the culmination of her numerous decades of magical study, the entirety of her magical focus and know-how inscribed within its heavy, leather-bound covers. A witch's grimoire was as intricate and essential to them as an arm or an eye. Her hand, guided by instinct and need, graced over the cover before it sprang open, responding to her intent, going directly to the spell she needed. Luverios, A fundamental working designed to disrupt, to reveal, to peel back layers.

"Luverios..." she uttered, the arcane words familiar on her tongue, a low chant against the wind.

Her magic responded, manifesting not as heat, but as an ebbing wave of violet energy that pulsed outwards. It shimmered in the air, a visible distortion, before it burned away the illusion before her, like mist before the sun.

And then, it was there. Towering above the horizon where only moments before there had been empty dune, a massive pyramid loomed into existence, casting a long, unnatural shadow across the sand. It was made of dark stone, alien and imposing, utterly out of place in the natural landscape. The Sepulcher of the Eastern Star. Her destination. The source of the chilling magic that hung heavy in the air. It was real. And it awaited.