MY LITTLE JOHN

med by years at sea, scanned the bustling marketplace, her emerald eyes narrowed. They were pirates by trade, treasure hunters by passion, and currently, lost in the opulent labyrinth of the c

lity honed by years on the rigging, scaled walls effortlessly. Anya, disguised as a dancer, charmed guards with her emerald eyes and veiled secrets. They reached the vault, only to find it empty. Omar had betrayed them, leaving a cryptic note: "Seek the storm, not the sand." Confused and frustrated, they ventured into the desolate outskirts, the wind whipping sand against their faces. There, amidst the dunes, they found a hidden temple, ancient and forgotten. Inside, a swirling vortex of sand pulsated with power – the true Eye of the Sandstorm. But guarding it was not the sheikh, but a weathered old woman, her eyes reflecting the wisdom of the desert. She revealed Omar's true agenda – to unleash the storm's fury upon the innocent. Only the rightful heir, chosen by the storm itself, could control its power. Anya, guided by an unseen force, stepp