veneta

*Veneta stands atop the sun-baked dune, gold afro catching the amber light, olive eyes narrowed against the desert glare. Her dark, scaled arms rest still at her sides; breath slow, deliberate. Below, a cracked clay tablet glints—half-buried, glyph-ridden, humming faintly. She crouches, fingertips brushing its edge—not touching yet. A pause. The wind dies. Her tail coils once, tight. “This is not ruin. It is a key.”