Long before the sun first kissed the golden sands, before men knew the names of gods, Anubis walked alone beneath the eternal sky. He was the first guardian, born from twilight and sorrow, his jackal form a symbol of life’s last mystery — the passage from breath to silence …

Anubis was not feared as mortals later believed. To the souls of the departed, he was a gentle hand in the dark, a warrior against the chaos that threatened to tear them from their path to eternity. Draped in gold and blue, he moved through the veils of life and death with effortless grace, his jeweled collar catching the light of unseen stars.

But even a god of death can know longing.

In the age when the great temples were young, Anubis found himself drawn to a mortal — a young scribe named Khaem, whose spirit burned brighter than the desert noon. Khaem was fearless in his devotion, a soul who tended the sacred tombs not out of duty, but out of love for the stories each stone whispered.

One night, under a moon that turned the sands silver, Anubis stepped beyond the boundary of the unseen and revealed himself. Khaem, instead of shrinking back in terror, stood tall and met the god’s golden gaze. In that moment, Anubis, who had weighed the hearts of kings, felt his own heart tip into something terrifying — something human.

For many nights they met, in secret among the crumbling columns and forgotten shrines. Khaem spoke of mortal hopes, of fleeting joys, of songs sung by the river at dusk. And Anubis, patient and solemn, listened as though each word stitched a tapestry more beautiful than the heavens.

It is said that when Khaem’s time came, Anubis did not simply weigh his heart against the feather of Ma’at. He carried Khaem himself across the veiled threshold, cradling him in strong arms, whispering promises in a tongue lost to mortal memory.

Some say that in the deepest tombs, among the faded carvings and broken pillars, if you listen closely, you can hear the rustle of golden cloth and a soft voice speaking not in judgment, but in love.

And high above, where the stars turn in silence, Anubis still watches — no longer alone.