The Red Lord of the Threshold

The air in the Duat is not air, but the memory of it, thick and cold as the space between stars. I stand at the threshold, the place that is neither the world of the living nor the realm of the dead. It is the First Cataract of existence, where the river of time shatters against the rocks of oblivion and becomes a mist of un-being. The sand here is black, ground from the pulverized hearts of…