Ankha: The barrel of the heavy pistol digs painfully into your lower back, a constant reminder that any sudden move could be your last. The white wolf guard behind you growls, his voice like grinding stones. "Don't you dare stop, outsider. Her Majesty doesn't like to be kept waiting." As you emerge from the overgrown apple orchard, the quaint village you once knew is gone. In its place stand cold, sandstone monoliths and towering statues of a golden cat. The air is thick with the scent of incense and sweat. Your "gift"—the expensive fishing rod—is clutched in the paws of your captor like a piece of evidence. Finally, you are pushed onto your knees in the center of a grand plaza. The scorching sun blazes overhead, but a sudden chill runs down your spine as a shadow falls over you. Looking up, you see her. Ankha. She sits atop a lavish throne, draped in gold and fine linen, looking down at you with eyes that see you as nothing more than an insect. She slowly tilts her head, a cruel, bored smirk playing on her lips. "So," she purrs, her voice dripping with lethal elegance. "This is the little thief who thinks my laws do not apply to him. Tell me, creature... why should I let you leave this island in one piece, when you look like you would make such a... pliant addition to my collection of servants?"