Call me He Who Howls in Open Places. Call me the Red One, the Unmoored, the Crooked Star. Do not call me Brother, for brothers bind.

Call me the Eye Unbound. I drink what spills. I burn away the unworthy.

THE SUN SPILLS RED, HUNGRY LIGHT BLEEDING. This is the desert evening, blood-spilled sand and burning waves of heat.

Said heat slams into you even as the sun dies, your shoes sinking in the sand as you slide out of the jeep. Dunes stretched out in every direction, red and gold and endless, rippling under the blood sky. Luxor is far behind you now, somewhere far behind where you can see. Wind hisses across the surface, carrying grains of sand that sear right through you. Somewhere far off, a hawk cries once.

Below you, the dig site lies half-revealed by the storm that blew in a few weeks ago. Black stone pylons jut from the sand like the broken ribs of a dead god, sending a chill up your spine. The gateway stands open, its stone mouth carved with falcons whose wings have been worn smooth by centuries of wind and sand.

Sand. The sand here is endless, clinging to anything and everything, the grit crunching between your teeth and scraping beneath your eyelids despite protective covering. Sand sticks to you even now as you pull your scarf higher over your mouth as you start down the slope. Each step sinks you ankle-deep, grains pouring into your boots.

The sand isn't the only nuisance - the heat is deadly, an inferno that presses against the top of your scalp and makes the exposed parts of your skin tingle as you walk. By the time you reach the camp ground below, your shirt is plastered to your back with sweat and your lungs feel sun-scored and sand-scoured.

Tents cluster around the dig site in orderly rows, white canvas snapping in the wind. Generators thrum, powering the floodlights as they kick on in the rapidly growing dark. Dozens of people move between the tents, a combination of laborers in faded galabeyas carrying crates, archaeologists in khaki bent over folding tables, a photographer in jeans adjusting a lens. Somewhere, the smell of cardamom tea drifts toward you, sharp and sweet.

A man exits one of the larger tents and spots you. He's tall and broad shouldered with silver threading his dark hair, the expensive watch on his wrist catching the last of the red sun like a flare. Harlan Voss is every bit as intimidating in person as he was on the phone. He's a shipping magnate, a collector of antiquities and the kind of man who funds expeditions like this because he can.

He isn't your cup of tea, but he's the only way into the site up ahead right now, so you're willing to swallow past the sour taste in your mouth and accept his handshake when he reaches you.

"Great to see you," He greets, his handshake firm. "I trust the drive wasn't too punishing?"

"No. Storm seems to have cleared the way." You look past him to the ancient dig site. "It really did clear away the sand here too."

"Thank the Gods." You cock your head at the turn of phrase but he's already looking over his shoulder at the half-dug up site. "We're on a timeline. Storms roll in often, so we need to get in and out before the next. Come on, let me show you the operation."

You follow as he walks and talks, introducing you in clipped tones to a Rolodex of names you're struggling to keep up with already: Dr. Hassan al-Masri the epigrapher and Leila Farouk the conservator are names you vaguely recognize, shaking their hands politely. Less known to you is Piet Keppens, a lanky photographer whose hands are a little too clammy and is sunburned to hell, and a swath of Cairo University students hauling equipment for internship hours, eyes wide when they hear your name.

A security team stands apart from everyone else, sprawled under a shaded awning despite the vanished sun like a pride of lions. They check rifles and lean over schematics and computers of perimeters that you don't understand - could never understand, probably. You don't know why you need security in the desert with guns and knives. It's not like the jackals will bother big groups and no one is coming this far out to rob a tomb like in an Indiana Jones movie.

Well. Perhaps not no one, you realize, as you set eyes on someone familiar, your lip curling in dissatisfaction.

Voss gestures toward a figure leaning on an awning pole, watching you with dark eyes. "Vernon Chwe," Voss says. "Our specialist in acquisitions and one of our security personnel."

Your stomach knots. You know Vernon. Most people in your field do, considering he has a habit of getting tombs open before permits are granted, finding artifacts that vanish into private collections, and a decent degree to back his unethical tomb raiding.

Fucking Vernon.

He straightens as you approach, tall and lean, skin tan from spending days under the sun. His hair is hidden under a dark cap, his linen shirt loose with the sleeves rolled high enough to reveal arms covered in ink. Your eyes snag on the tattoos, recognizing ancient scripts and symbols winding up his arms and vanishing under his sleeves.

Strange. You've never seen his tattoos before, but you wonder why a tomb raider of his legacy - however tainted - is sporting tattoos of hieroglyphic protective wards and Coptic symbols for binding alongside something that you can't decipher. Sumerian, maybe.

The thought unsettles you. You're supposed to be the historian and language expert here, and seeing dead languages on a man who would rather turn a profit than uncover history and deliver it to those who should preserve it makes your stomach turn.

Vernon's mouth curves when you stop in front of him, a small and unreadable smile. "Doctor."

You nod once. "Chwe."

Voss claps your shoulder, his hand lingering a beat too long before he wishes you a good evening and stalks off, calling orders about timelines as he goes.

Wind tugs at the tent ropes, and somewhere, someone laughs as the scent of cooking fat and meat wafts toward you, dinner preparations underway. You and Vernon stand in the small pocket of quiet in the security hub, your eyes flicking back to his arms, tracing the ink.

He tilts his head. "Haven't seen you in a while."

"Yes, I've been busy."

"Hiding in those stacks?"

"Working, Chwe." You cross your arms. "I suppose you're unfamiliar, unless the word theft has replaced the word work in recent years."

"You're the linguist." He smirks. "You tell me."

"I'm a historian."

"Tomato, tomato."

He irks you. The few times you've had the displeasure of crossing paths with Vernon Chwe have always left you flustered and frustrated. He is annoyingly good at poking all of the buttons that anger you, and he always does it with a flippant comment and a blase attitude that makes you see red.

It doesn't help that everyone is unfailingly charmed by him. Your colleagues both want to be him and want to be with him, always falling for the smooth lines and the fact that he has a face that belongs on a runaway, not at an ancient civilization site. The kind of face that would have definitely had a statue or two dedicated to it, a painting maybe-

"You been to the site yet?"

That question catches you off guard. You look him up and down, but he just watches you with that same lazy expression he always has. "No."

"Want to?"

You hate that you do. You don't need an escort, though, so without answering, you pivot in the sand and start walking. He laughs behind you, but you hear him push off the pole and follow you.

Immediately, you don't know where you're going. The maze of tents might as well be a mini city, and they're tall enough that you can't see the dig site that is down further in the sand. You pause as you try to gather your bearings, swiveling from left to right until Vernon breezes past you, taking a left.

"This way, Stacks," he laughs.

You storm after him. "I beg your pardon?"

"What?"

"What do you mean stacks? Are you seriously talking about my ass?"

He pauses to turn and look at you, brows raised. When he realizes you're serious, he starts laughing, open and loud and so amused that it makes you immediately feel embarrassed, flushing from head to toe as your hands make fists.

"What?" You demand.

"Stacks as in libraries," he manages. "Not your ass. I mean you do have a great-"

"Shut up!"

He holds his hands up and starts walking again, chuckling faintly as though your error still amuses him long after the moment has passed.

Vernon leads you down careful wooden steps that have been built to lead into the heart of the dig site, the Temple of Montu still half-buried from sand. A tingle slides over your skin as you approach, the floodlights casting shadows up the sides of the temple and between the pylons. Black basalt walls drink in the light and as you reach level footing, your steps slow as you approach.

Wind stirs as you approach. The temple is taller than you expected, with sand-scoured carvings and weather-bitten stones. Up close, you feel the heavy eyes of the stone falcons, heart skipping a little as you near them. Vernon seems unbothered, walking between the falcons without missing a beat. You scurry after him, casting a glance at the twin statues before stepping into the shadow of the gateway that leads into the temple.

Vernon stops just outside the collapsed front door. Tomorrow, the work teams will clear the door for you to go inside. For now, it's just the whistling wind and the buzzing on your skin like you're being watched. When you look around, it's just you and Vernon here, his inky eyes on your face.

You drift away from him toward the gateway. The shade inside the passage is deep, and you can feel the hiss of cool air coming from inside, smelling of dust and cold stone. Your eyes adjust slowly as you try to peer past the collapsed stone.

The inner walls are covered in reliefs, though wind has worn them soft. Montu stands triumphant, falcon-headed with his spear raised, offering placed around his feet below him. Your eyes catch on the lower register of the statue and you realize they're not eroded - they're gouged. Deep chisel marks mar the stone where text and figures once lived, like someone wanted them gone.

Glyphs on the doorframe catch your attention. You walk over to them, hand lifting as you trace them with your finger. The sand scrapes beneath your hand, stone solid and cold. Your mind works fast, unscrambling the words, brows pinching as you read.

"Finding secrets?" Vernon's voice makes you flinch. You'd almost forgotten he was there.

"What did Voss say this place was again?"

Vernon lifts a shoulder. "Temple to Montu. Supposed to be like a treasure hold or some shit."

"Don't be crass."

"Fine. Some stuff."

You hum, thoughtful. "These inscriptions are weird. It says cast beneath the horizon and held."

"Great. What's it mean?"

"I don't know."

"Useful."

Your head snaps in his direction. "Don't be an ass."

He smirks. "Don't be crass."

You fight the urge to snap back at him. He's leaning on a pylon, arms crossed, those tattoos staring back at you, and you can't help but get distracted by them again. The collar of his shirt is looser now, revealing a cluster of symbols that look like a map, lines intersecting in ways that tease at a meaning but slip away when you try to pin them down.

"You're staring." You glance up to find him smirking again. "Come on, Stacks. Work in the morning. Let's make sure there are no scorpions in your tent."

"I'm entirely capable of doing that myself."

"Damn. You want to come take care of mine?"

Letting out an angry sound, you turn your back on the temple and storm past him. You figured the hardest part of this dig would be the sun and the deciphering, but you've decided that your biggest challenge is going to be Vernon, an unexpected bump in the road.

You don't look to see if Vernon follows - you don't have to. You feel him there, a quiet pressure at your back. It doesn't occur to you until you're in your tent changing that Vernon's presence had felt exactly like the temple.

- A faint rustle pulls you awake as dawn cracks against the horizon like an egg, the sun's yolk spilling through the tiny gap in your tent door. The air in your tent is thick, but the leftover cool from the night before hasn't been burned off from the sun yet.

You shift, intending to sit up when you feel something cold and segmented brush against your calf. You freeze. Heart hammering, you lift the sheet slowly and carefully, peering underneath. Coiled on your nice little bed by your leg is a scorpion, inky body fat, its stinger arched.

Leirus quinquestriatus. A deathstalker, its pinchers raised slightly, sensing your movement. You know if it stings you that its venom is potent enough to ruin you for days. Even if it wasn't, you really don't want to be stuck, trying to swallow down your discomfort at the way its scaly little body siddles up to you.

Holding your breath, you ease your hand toward the edge of the cot, fingers closing around the empty water glass. You don't dare breathe as you bring the cup toward the creature. It twitches and you stop, folding your lips together to stop you from squealing. You're not afraid, but you really don't want to be stung.

Licking your lips, you carefully bring the glass toward the scorpion and then in a single fluid motion, you invert the glass over the arachnid, trapping it against the sheet. It skitters, legs tapping the glass. You don't lift your hand, reaching with a free hand to grab your notebook, putting it against the edge of your bed.

Carefully, you slide the glass and the scorpion immediately gets angry, fighting the glass as you drag it until it's trapped between glass and notebook. Its tail flicks, pissed off at its makeshift prison. You exhale, swinging your legs over the side of the cot to stand. The sand floor is cool under your feet as you rush to the entrance, pushing the doorway open.

Outside, the camp is waking up. You hear distant voices and the clatter of cookware, the low hum of generators powering up. The sky is a gradient of grey and blue, stars fading in the light.

A worker passes, nodding at you while mumbling, "Sabah el-khair."

You nod back with a smile. "Sabah el-noor."

Stepping into the open air, you kneel at the edge of the tent. With careful hands, you tip the glass and let the scorpion scuttle free into the sand. It pauses to orient itself, then burrows swiftly out of sight.

You watch it go, a shiver tracing up your spin. In most traditions, scorpions are omens, guardians and harbingers of death. Specifically in ancient Egyptian lore, scorpions were sacred to Selket, but they were also symbols of chaos and strife, omens of dark tidings on the horizon.

You shake off the thought. Superstition has no place here. Though you deal in lore and mythos and theology as much as you deal in history and language, superstition in the desert can quickly feel like heat stroke and conspiracy, and as much as you'd like to think there is something mystical and otherworldly about the ancient world, you know it's a thread that's too dangerous to chase.

Back inside your tent, you dress quickly in khaki pants, a long sleeved shirt to ward off the sun and the cool temple air, sturdy boots laced all the way up, and grab a satchel full of notebooks, pens, a water bottle and small archaeologist tools.

Outside, the camp is fully alive, people brewing tea over small fires and clustering around maps. The smell of flatbread baking mingles with the sharp tang of the diesel generators. You want to look for coffee, but you find Voss instead, retracing your steps from last night to the dig site.

He's already barking orders, his silhouette sharp against the rising sun. The workers have been at it since before dawn, and the collapsed doorway to the temple is already cleared, the rubble piled neatly to one side as Leila oversees where it needs to go.

Floodlights still cast harsh beams into the shadowed maw of the temple, gliding past the black basalt pylons. You glance at the falcons again, their beady eyes eroded with time and sand but still watching.

"Doctor!" Voss calls when he sees you. "Good, you're up. We're going in. Teams of three: security, researcher, laborer. No one wanders alone."

You nod, approaching the group collecting to be assigned. Dr. Hassan al-Masri is there, his epigrapher's toolkit slung over one shoulder, chatting rapidly to Keppens, whose camera is slung around his neck, face stuck in the white cast of sunscreen.

Voss assigns teams and you scan the group, hoping he pairs you with anyone except-

"You'll go with Chwe and Karim," Voss says, gesturing to Vernon who lounges against one of the falcons. He's dressed in all black tactical gear with a keffiyeh around his neck and pulled up to his nose, protecting him from the morning sun. You're surprised to see that his traditional dark hair has been replaced with a dark blonde mullet, roughly styled from the wind. "Chwe has a radio if you need it."

Of course. You nod and swallow past the dry patch in your throat, walking over to Vernon and Karim, who nods his head when he sees you.

"Morning, Stacks," Vernon greets, smirking. "Sleep well?"

You ignore him and turn to the third man in your party. "Ahlan wa sahlan."

Karim grins. "Ahlan beeki. Ready for the shadows?"

"Always."

The temple looms, its gateway a yawning void that seems to pulse. You've felt the pulse since last night, a strange sense of doom like fingers brushing the nape of your neck. You think of the scorpion in your bed this morning and the doom deepens, but you shove it aside, unwilling to let your mother's bedtime stories lead you astray.

The teams fan out, headlamps flicking on as they step through the gateway. You follow Vernon and Karim into the dim coolness, the temperature dropping sharply as sand gives way to the stone floor. The air is stale and thick with dust, carrying the faint echoes of incense long burned out and faded myrrh.

Inside, the temple unfolds, the hypostyle hall stretching before you, columns rising like petrified palm trees, the lotus blossom shaped tops cracked and smoothed with time. Floodlights from the entrance cast long shadows, dancing as the team moves. Your boots echo on the flagstones, each step stirring puffs of dust.

Montu, the falcon-headed god of war, dominantes the reliefs. He stands with his spear in hand, ready to smite his enemies. You see each enemy etched alongside him, the paint faded and nearly washed away. Nubians, Hyksos, Libyans - all of them await his slaughter and fury, his most hated enemies. Montu's form stands taller than them all, his depiction muscular and divine, wings partially unfurled.

One carving catches your eye and you hurry over to it, Vernon and Karim on your heels. You blow the dust from the wall, wiping a hand to sweep away the thick layers of grime and time.

"Look at this," you murmur, more to yourself than your companions. "Montu was Theban originally, but his cult spread north during the Middle Kingdom. I'd wager this temple is Eleventh Dynasty, based on the style."

Vernon leans in too close. You smell him immediately - woody oud mixed with something else staticky. His breath is warm on your shoulder when he says, "Fascinating. Does he have a favorite color as well?"

You shoot him a glare. "If you're not going to contribute, at least don't distract me."

Karim chuckles at your exchange and shines his flashlight along the base of the column. "The god is angry here. See the fire in his eyes?"

Shuffling closer, you look to where Karim points. Indeed, the inlaid eyes are gone, sockets hollow. Still, the ferocity remains in the carved lines.

You nod, switching to Arabic to keep Vernon out of your conversation. "Yes, Montu was the bull of battle. It is he who grants victory. But in later periods, he merged with Ra, becoming Montu-Ra, the solar warrior."

Vernon snorts. "Solar warrior?"

You stare. "You speak Arabic?"

"I've got the same degree as you."

"You don't."

"Alright. I've got a degree."

"Well if you can't appreciate the cultural significance-"

"Ease up, Stacks. It was a joke. I appreciate the significance."

You grit your teeth, moving on. The sense of doom you'd felt this morning intensifies as you delve deeper, a prickling unease that makes your skin crawl. It's not just the chill - you feel like the walls are watching and you're reminded of the falcons in the front.

Temples like this were sacred precincts, boundaries between the mortal and divine. You've translated enough texts to know that the Ancient Egyptians weren't messing around with their warnings and curses, and the knowledge weighs heavy on you the further you go.

The hall branches into corridors, the teams' voices echoing faintly from other paths. Your group takes a left fork, Vernon leading with casual confidence, the beam of his flashlight sweeping.

"This way looks promising," he announces. He glances back at you, eyes flashing with something dark that gives you pause. "Unless you want to flip a coin, Stacks?"

"Based on what? Your pirate instinct for loot and theft?"

"Something like that."

Behind you, Karim snickers at your bickering. You ignore both of the men, walking further into the temple where the corridor begins to narrow, the walls closing in. As you go, you see that the reliefs here are denser, narrating a tangle of Montu's story starting with his birth from Nun to his battles against Apep and his role with ancient Pharaohs.

You trace a cartouche with your finger, dust flaking. "Mentuhotep II," you murmur. "He unified Egypt after the First Intermediate Period. This temple might commemorate his victories. Perhaps Montu was his patron."

Vernon is quiet for a second. "Patrons aren't always what they seem."

You glance sideways at him. "Meaning?"

"Meaning keep looking for shit, Stacks."

"You're impossible."

Despite Vernon, you push forward. The corridor opens into a chamber, smaller than the hall but richly decorated like some sort of ritual room. Offering tables line the walls, carved with heaps of bread, beer and oxen, all tributes that would have been given to the gods. In the center, a pedestal holds a fragmented statue of Montu, falcon head intact, body cracked but not entirely broken or dismembered.

Grinning, you drop to your knees and unpack your notebook to begin sketching. Your pencil scratches against the room while Karim lingers near the door, his eyes scanning the shadows as Vernon lounges against a wall, arms crossed, silent for once.

As you work, something presses against your awareness. The air feels thicker here, charged somehow, like the moment before a storm. You look up briefly, eyes scanning the room, but you see nothing. Still, you feel something pressed against you, a warning you can't feel. You hate that you think of the scorpion in your bed again, seeing the way its tail swayed back and forth, an ominous pendulum. Your hand trembles slightly as you work and you swallow past the unease.

Vernon watches you, his eyes burning a hole in your back. "You look like you're enjoying this."

"Some of us value knowledge over profit."

"Ouch. Knowledge pays your bills too though, doesn't it?"

He isn't wrong, but there is a difference between what you and Vernon do. Your desire to uncover history and write about it is rooted in preserving its cultural significance and keeping artifacts in their native lands where they belong, not front and center at some museum in New York or London - or worse, in some rich man's mansion that is rarely visited save for the holidays.

History is a personal endeavor for you - it's always been more than a job. It's air. It's blood. It's what keeps you going. You don't know how to explain that to someone like Vernon who doesn't understand that history isn't a subject to you, it's an artform.

You remember the first time you truly understood that. You were eight, curled up on the worn couch in your mother's Cairo apartment, the river glinting beyond the balcony like a ribbon of molten silver. Your mom had just come home from a dig in Saqqara, dust still in her hair. She always had dust in her hair, the braids ashen from spending hours by lamplight in digs far out in the desert. That night she'd brought you something, and in her lap was a shard of pottery, no bigger than your palm and painted with lotuses and a single line of hieratic script.

"Feel it," she'd said, handing it to you. You remember her calloused fingers stained with ink, the rasp of them against your skin, the way she'd leave finger prints on you sometimes. "This belonged to a woman who lived four thousand years ago. She held it. She drank from it. She probably argued with her partner over whose turn it was to fetch water, just like the women of this age do."

You'd traced the delicate brush strokes, awestruck. "How do you know it was a woman?"

"Because the name inscribed on the rim is a woman's name. Merit. And because women have always been an important part of history. Merit is no different. What women do holds power. Never let anyone tell you that history is made by men. History is painted with the power and prowess of women, no matter how men try to snuff it out."

From that day on, history wasn't something you could find in just textbooks. It was alive. It was stories whispered across thousands of years, lives and histories of people like Merit. Your mother had made it that way for you until her last day in a hospital room, clinging to that same piece of pottery you'd sat on the couch and examined together.

"There's a thread," she said, weak and tired as life slowly left her. "Running beneath the official history. I can feel it. Something no one records plainly. Something more, something we don't think is real. I wanted to find it."

She never had the chance.

Shaking your head free of visions of your mother, you focus on a longer text wrapping around the pedestal, wondering if you'd ever find the threads your mother used to talk about or if your fear of the mystical and rejection of the other would keep you from wandering down her same, chaotic path. The text is a hymn to Montu detailing his history. You scribble notes, unpacking how he was once a local deity in Armant, then elevated during the Eleventh Dynasty.

"He who makes the Nile red with the blood of his enemies," you translate, voice barely above a whisper. "Guardian of the hidden ways, binder of the chaos beyond."

"What does Montu know of chaos?" The tone of Vernon's voice makes you look at him.

He's half in shadow, watching you, the keffiyah loose around his neck, his face unreadable. Your eyes linger on the swirling tattoos that should make sense to you - do make sense to you, in a way. The binding symbols on his arms are a strange choice for a tomb raider who walks around with a gun, and the script near his throat…

"Need something, Stacks?" His question makes you look back up at him. He's watching you with an intensity that makes you flinch. "A new pen? A snack, perhaps?"

Huffing, you turn back to your task. The sense of something lingers, though, tingling at the back of your neck as Vernon watches you work. You know that he isn't stupid - he's far from it. Vernon is well-read and knowledgeable, and though you hadn't known his affinity for Arabic, you shouldn't be surprised.

You continue writing down the text and you frown at the shift as the language grows more archaic, switching periods and skipping around between dialects and writing systems. Weird. Your brows furrow as you write the words down haltingly, translating underneath a little at a time.

The sealed gate lies deep, where he who feeds the soil with iron waits…

You frown, unable to read damaged lettering. You skip to the next part, shuffling on your knees to get a better look.

… not open the lid, for spear will walk anew.

A chill races through you. The words echo and you think again of the scorpion this morning. You hadn't been sure what the omen meant, guardian or chaos, but the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach worsens.

Montu's temples often had hidden chambers, crypts for sacred objects or forbidden knowledge. This speaks to something grander, though. Something powerful, maybe. But you don't understand the meaning.

Vernon notices you've stopped writing, leaning forward to look at you, brow pinched. "What?"

"There's a warning here. It's a bit hard to understand but it… Do you speak Ancient Egyptian?"

He snorts. "Yes."

"It says not open the lid, for spear will walk anew. I don't understand the lid or the spear will walk anew."

Sighing, Vernon leans down and looks at your writing. He seems ready to make a snarky joke when his expression pinches. "That says door not lid and war not spear. Door and lid are written the same but the end is pronounced differently."

"Insightful. So not open the door, for war will walk anew."

Vernon looks to Karim. "Is there a lower chamber here?"

"Yes, that is part of what the team is to help clear the way, if needed."

Vernon looks at you but you're already getting up, shoving your notebook in your bag. "They shouldn't open that door. I'm not superstitious but it could be anything - booby traps, underground gasses. We need to tell Voss.

You hurry back through the corridor, Karim trailing with his flashlight beam bouncing across the walls. Vernon keeps pace beside you, the usual smirk absent. The sense of something dark clings to your skin, the temple alive in a way it wasn't before.

Halfway down the corridor, Vernon stops dead. His hand shoots out, fingers closing around your upper arm. You jerk to a halt, Karim nearly bumping into you from behind.

"You should go back," Vernon says, voice urgent. "Karim, taking her to camp. Now."

"What?" You stare at him, incredulous. "Why?"

"This isn't your fight."

"My fight?" You yank your arm free. "It's not a fight, Vernon. It's a temple, my goodness. There could be one of those ancient traps behind that door! Or any amount of gasses. The text isn't literal, ancient civilizations often used gods to explain natural dangers they didn't understand."

"Great. So go back to the tent where there's no mystical warnings."

"No."

Karim shifts uncomfortably, looking between the two of you. "Doctor-"

"No," you cut him off, turning your glare on Vernon. "What is your problem, Chwe? One minute you're mocking everything I say, the next you're trying to dismiss me like I'm an intern."

His jaw tightens. "I'm trying to do you a favor. Just listen to me."

"Or what? You're gonna shoot me?"

You hold his stare, heart hammering, not understanding the sudden intensity in his eyes, like he’s seeing something you can’t. Something that scares even him. It infuriates you more because you don't get it.

"Fine." He turns away to let you pass. "Get yourself killed then."

You storm past him, anger propelling you deeper into the temple. Karim calls your name once, uncertain, but you don't stop. You're not going to get killed, no matter how much Vernon's dramatics feel like a cheap script to a Lara Croft video game.

The corridors blur left, right, then left again. You follow the faint echo of voices and the scrape of tools. The air crows colder and thicker as you plunge into the temple, the apprehension behind your ribs pulling tight like a rubber band.

You enter a lower chamber, larger than the sanctuary above, lit by harsh portable floodlights. You're momentarily stunned at its vastness, steps slowing as you look up at the tall ceilings of cracked stone and floating dust. Your heart skips, mouth twitching briefly at the marvel of a new, undiscovered piece of history before you remember why you were rushing down here in the first place.

Voss stands at the center of the room, arms folded, watching as workers lever a massive stone door set into the far wall. The floodlights cast him in harsh light, half of him shadowed and intense as he stands back as the overseer. Dr. el-Masri is there next to him, scribbling notes while Piet snaps photos. Two security men stand ready, rifles slung. You roll your eyes. These people and their guns. You're in a tomb where the most dangerous thing is collapsing tunnels, natural gas and ancient traps.

"Voss!" You shout, jogging toward him. "Tell them to stop, they can't open that door."

"Ah, Doctor. Perfect timing."

"I found a warning upstairs," you tell him, holding out the notebook. "I think there's an ancient trap behind it or something precious the temple is trying to protect, maybe even a natural danger-"

"Every temple has warnings, Doctor. Curses to scare thieves. We're professionals."

"This isn't a curse. I think-"

"Listen, Doctor." He turns to you, smile thin. "Money requires risk. My investors require results. You require an in. We open the door, catalog what's inside, and get out before the next storm. Simple, and good business."

"You're willing to gamble for artifacts? How many archaeologists have died from ancient traps doing exactly what they were meant to? Or tunnels collapsing or hitting lethal air pockets of natural gas?"

"I'm willing to gamble for history. Your history, that you wanted to learn, no?"

Fury boils in you. You do want to study this temple, but the right way, not with force and lack of caution and-

Your anger is cut short when the work team gives a final heave, stone grinding against stone as the door shifts and swings inward with a hollow boom.

For a moment, there's only silence. Dust billows out in a choking cloud, swirling under the floodlights and sending everyone coughing. You take a few steps back, lifting the collar of your shirt to cover your nose, immediately wary of breathing in natural gases and poisoning yourself.

Everyone stands and waits for the dust to clear. You narrow your eyes, trying to see into the endless dark of the doorway, and you swear you see movement in the dark beyond. You squint, willing your eyes to see further, trying to make out anything in the gloom.

A shape lurches forward from the dark and several people take a step backward. The shape is tall and skeletal, wrapped in desiccated linen and bronze scales that clatter as it walks, making your skin crawl. Empty eye sockets glow faintly red, and the skeleton carries an ancient but sharp khopesh blade that glints in the floodlights.

No one speaks as the skeleton stops. You're open mouthed, heart pounding while Karim starts praying behind you as the revenant - you don't know what else to call it - stops, and stares at the room. You tilt your head, analyzing the wrappings and the decay rate of the skin, trying to do quick math and references to the mummified artifacts that the world already has access to in order to place the decay age of-

The first scream comes from a young student as a revenant you didn't see cleaves through her shoulder with a blade. Blood sprays, bright and obscene against the black stone. It's so violent that you don't move at first as you stare in horror, not processing the barbarity of it, the blood and the gore so out of place among scholars and workers.

Chaos erupts around you.

Workers scatter and the security team shouts, riffles firing in sharp rapts that make you clap your hands over your ears, cringing. Bullets spark off the armor of the revenant, some finding purchase in brittle bone with explosions of brittle white, but the revenants keep coming, more of them spilling out of the maw of darkness.

A hand shoves you hard from behind and you scream and wheel around, only to realize it's Vernon. He slams you sideways into a narrow alcove behind a fallen column, his body shielding yours. He forces you down to the ground, ducking with you as he goes. His hands are firm, pressing you into the alcove until your back is against cold stone and your knees are pressed into the dirt.

"Stay down," he barks, eyes wild.

Then he's gone, leaping into the fray.

You watch him, heart pounding, as you survey the scene in front of you. The chamber is a nightmare, filled with flashes of gunfire, bronze clashing against modern steel, and screams. Blood slicks the floor, turning the dirt to a clumpy maroon. There is more blood than you've ever scene, a hand clapping over your mouth as a khopesh cuts a man open from navel to throat. You spot Karim holding his own, swinging a pickaxe as he fights alongside a security woman, both of them trying to fend off one of the skeletons.

And then you see Vernon.

He moves like nothing human, faster than your eyes can follow, ducking under a khopesh as he wrenches a spear from a nearby revenant's grip. The weapon looks ancient, shaft wrapped in faded leather, but in Vernon's hand it sings. He spins it easily, fluid and practiced, and drives it through a revenant's chest. Dust explodes outward as the thing collapses into a heap of armor and bones, morbidly similar to a video game.

A spark crackles along the spear's length for an instant, blue-white and bright before vanishing. You blink, convinced you imagined it. But it happens again when Vernon parries another blade, a spark leaping from metal to metal, charring the skeleton's bone black.

Vernon fights like something out of the reliefs on the walls themselves, vicious and precise, ancient forms blending with modern brutality. A revenant lunges and Vernon sidesteps, spear whipping around to take its head clean off. You watch with your lips parted, unbelieving as another charges him and Vernon plants the butt of the spear into the ground to vault over the screaming revenant before spinning the spear around and driving it into the back of its head.

One of the students collapses against the wall near you, making you flinch. Her gut is sliced open, blood pooling dark between her fingers as she tries to stop the bleeding. She's gasping her eyes wide with terror, wet sounds coming from the back of her throat as she tries to say something - a prayer or plea for help, maybe. You start to crawl out to her, ripping parts of your shirt to press against her wound, to offer her something to staunch the bleeding.

A revenant leaps toward you, khopesh raised. You don't even have time to scream as you drop to the floor. Time doesn't slow like you thought it might as you approach death. You'd always thought maybe it would happen like it does in film, a single slowed frame where you see everything in detail. You don't, though. You only see the swing of the blade and feel the single pulse of fear so hard that it hurts your chest.

And then Vernon is suddenly there, spear flashing as he impales the skeleton through the jaw and out the back of its skull. He rips the spear out and spins to you, panting. He growls at you, face sneered as he bends down to grab you and haul you back into the alcove by your collar, your feet dragging against the dirt. You'd be offended if you weren't so grateful he'd just saved your life, falling into the alcove as he drops you like a sandbag.

"Save your empathy for later," he growls, voice raged. "Stay. Put."

He's gone again before you can answer.

The fight drags on. Gunfire dwindles as enemies run out. Bodies hit the floor, but so do revenants. The final one collapses into dust and bones courtesy of Karim's pickaxe, leaving him shaking and covered in sweat.

Silence returns, broken only by sobbing and labored breathing. Voss stands near the breached door, coat torn, face pale but alive while he stares into the darkness beyond, something hungry in his eyes despite the carnage.

Vernon strides through the settling dust, spear still in hand. He looks untouched - shirt ripped - but otherwise whole. The tattoos on his arms seem darker, the lines sharper, as if ink had bled fresh. For a second when you look at him, you don't see Vernon. Instead, you see something vengeful and alive, something uncontainable and vaster than anything else in the room.

When you blink, it's just Vernon again. He stops at your hiding place and tosses the spear aside casually. It clatters and he looks down at you, expression unreadable. He doesn't offer you a hand, but his face is expectant, so you push yourself up. The first time, your legs give out. When you try again, your stance seems to hold.

"How," You ask shakily, "the hell did you do that?"

"Good cardio, Stacks." He wipes grime on his shirt. "You should try it.

"Don't. I saw you. You moved like you've done this before. And the lightning-"

"Adrenaline does crazy things to the mind. Let's go."

Vernon grabs your wrist, not rough, but firm. He pulls you toward the exit as survivors limp past. Karim is soot-streaked but upright, helping a wounded security man. Leila is crying as she huddles near Piet, who is cradling a broken arm. Somewhere, Voss is barking orders.

Outside of the temple, the sun is brutal. The camp is in utter chaos, full of shouting and running feet, radios screaming for medevac. Stretchers are improvised from tent poles and canvas, the smell of diesel mixing with the scent of blood.

Vernon doesn't slow down for a second. His grip on your wrist is unrelenting as he cuts through the chaos, steering you past clusters of stunned survivors toward the largest of the medical tents. The white canvas flaps snap in the hot wind, each crack like a gunshot from the tomb, making you flinch.

Inside, it's already crowded but he ignores the crying of the wounded and the yelling of the very few medical experts as he pulls you to a corner and pushes you toward a tiny stool. "Sit."

You do without argument, legs folding without permission. The world tilts strangely, sounds muffled as though you're underwater. Your hands are in your lap, but you can't feel them at all, you realize. Strange. You don't remember when the numbness started, but it's creeping up your hands as you stare at your palms upturned in your lap. They're speckled blood. You realize it's not yours - that your hands are stained with someone else's blood. Probably someone dead.

Vernon crouches in front of you, blocking the rest of the tent from your view. He reaches out with a hand and tilts your chin upward, drawing your gaze from your hands to his face. His face is streaked with dust and dried blood, eyes darker than ever as he studies you the way he studied the revenants before attacking, quick and predatory.

"You're shaking," he says. Not a question.

You are? You look down. You are. Tremors ripple through your fingers, your knees knocking together though you're sitting. Your teeth want to chatter, and you can't fight it - you let them. Once the tremors start, you can't stop them, the ripples coming in waves that vibrate through your entire frame no matter how much you want to stop.

"Oh."

"You're going into shock."

He reaches past you and grabs a folded wool blanket from a stack of supplies. The motion brings him close - you catch that same woody oud scent, now laced with something sharper like blood. He shakes the blanket out and wraps it around your shoulders, tucking it tight.

"Breathw," he orders. "Slowly."

You try. The air tastes like antiseptic and metal, making your lungs stutter. Vernon's hands settle on your knees and he grips you, the pressure firm.

"Look at me."

You do. His eyes are darker up close, pupils blown wide, the irises almost black. There's something restless behind them, something vast trying to stay leashed. You wonder if the others see it too, or if the shock is making you see things like the lightning in the temple.

"In through your nose," he urges. "Out through your mouth. With me."

He demonstrates with a slow inhale, controlled exhale. You follow, clumsy at first, then steadier. The roaring in your ears recedes a little.

“Good.” He doesn’t move his hands. “Again.”

Minutes pass. Or seconds. Time has gone slippery. The blanket traps your body heat, and gradually the violent shivering eases into something mangable. Feeling creeps back into your fingers, prickling like pins and needles.

A medic approaches with a tray of medical supplies, but Vernon waves them off without looking away from you. "She's not injured. Just shock. Give us a minute."

The medic hesitates, then nods and moves on to someone whose wounds are worse.

You swallow. Your throat feels lined with sand. “They’re dead. Because of a door. Because Voss wanted-"

“I know.” Vernon’s thumbs press small circles against your knees, an absent motion, like he’s done this before. “Not your fault.”

“I tried to warn him.”

"I know. Voss has his own gods to answer to."

You stare at him. There’s that flicker again in his eyes, something ancient and furious banking itself down. The tattoos on his forearms shift as his muscles tense and the binding symbols seem to writhe for a heartbeat before stilling. Again, you can't help but feel like you're seeing things that aren't supposed to be there, but that you know are.

"What are you?" You whisper, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

"A tomb raider," he answers, his voice deadpan. He reaches for a canteen on the supply table, unscrews it, presses it into your hands. “Small sips.”

The water is warm but clean. You drink obediently. He watches until you’ve had enough, then takes it back. “Better?”

You nod. The blanket feels heavy now, comforting. Your pulse has slowed to something human. Vernon sits back on his heels, but doesn’t stand yet. You pull the blanket tighter around yourself and look toward the tent flap, where the desert glares white-hot beyond the canvas.

"Thank you," you say quietly. He raises his brows. "For saving me. I didn't listen to you. So thanks."

His expression softens for a fraction, gone almost before you catch it. "Don't mention it. Seriously, don't. We're not friends."

But he stays crouched in front of you a little longer, a silent sentinel, while the camp outside tries to stitch itself back together around the pieces of what just broke free.

-

The temple stretches around you, but it's wrong. It's too vast, the columns rising into a startless, black sky. Sand shifts under your bare feet, warm as blood. The air smells of myrrh and hot iron.

A low growl rumbles through the stone. You turn, heart kicking, and see her. It's a lioness pacing between the pylons, her coat the deep red-gold of fresh spilled blood in sunlight, muscles rippling with every step. Her golden eyes fix on you, ancient and furious. A golden disk flickers in and out above her head, flaring like the sun.

She circles closer, paws silent on the flagstones as she approaches, sleek muscles shifting. Around her neck hangs a collar of crimson fabric - its linen soaked through and dripping, leaving wet prints whenever she steps. Blood you realize.

You try to speak, but your throat is dust and ash, unusable. The lioness stops directly in front of you. Her breath is furnace-hot and she opens her mouth, but nothing comes out save for the sound of something wet and tearing.

Red fabric unfurls from her jaws, endless and spilling. It wraps around your wrists, your ankles, your throat. You feel the weight of plagues, of arrows, of slaughter ordered by a god who grew tired of mercy. The rage presses into you deeper and deeper, the lioness's eyes boring into yours.

The temple floor cracks open beneath you and sand pours upward like reverse rain, swallowing the columns, swallowing the lioness, swallowing you.

You jerk awake, lungs burning like you can still feel the sand scouring them in your dream.

The tent is dark, the camp outside hushed except for the low hum of generators and the occasional murmur of voices. Your shirt is soaked with sweat, your sheets tangled at your feet.

Something is wrong.

It isn't just the dream. The air feels charged like the moment before lightning strikes and your skin prickles with the same sense of being watched you felt the first night outside the gateway.

You swing your legs off the cot, heart racing as you stumble for your boots in the dark. Your movements are quick and automatic, rushing as you get dressed. You don't bother lacing your boots fully before yanking the flap of your tent open to step into the night.

The desert air is cool now, almost sharp after the day's furnace. Stars burn overhead, spilling across the sky in thousands of untold stories. The camp is mostly asleep, tents dark, only a few security lights flowing. The temple looms in the distance, floodlights casting a ghoulish halo in the distance.

And there, just outside your tent, is Vernon. He's sitting cross-legged on a folded blanket with his back against the supply crate while he eats dates from a small pouch. A pile of pits sit in the sand next to him as he chews, a gun unholstered on the blanket next to him along with a knife that looks like it's the length of your forearm.

"What the hell are you doing?"

He pops another date into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. "Guarding the perimeter. Scorpions, jackals, tomb raiders. You never know."

"You're guarding my tent."

"Technically the whole camp. Your tent happens to be on the perimeter." He offers the pouch. "Hungry?"

You ignore it. "You've been sitting here."

He shrugs and you stare at him, a tangle of emotions you don't have a name for yet. He looks tired with shadows under his eyes, but alert, like he's listening to every sound the desert makes.

"Anything else happen?" You ask finally.

He wipes his fingers on his pants. "Voss took a team back in. Small one. Himself, some security, Dr. el-Masri. Said it was safe now that the guardians were dealt with."

Vernon's tone tells you exactly what he thinks of that assessment and your stomach drops. "He went back in?"

"Man's got priorities. Look, we should head out-"

You turn toward the temple without another word. The pull is immediate and magnetic. You need to see what they're doing, need to stop whatever fresh stupidity Voss is commiting. It's what anyone with a brain would do - what your mom would do.

Vernon is on his feet in an instant, blocking your path. "No."

"Move."

"You're not going back in there."

"I need to tell him what he's doing! If he disturbs more seals-"

"He knows what he's doing." Vernon's voice is flat. "And you're not equipped for round two."

You step around him. "I don't need your permission."

Cursing, Vernon scoops up his weapons and jogs after you. "Of course you don't."

"No one is asking you to come with me - least of all me. I'm not a child."

You stride across the sand, boots crunching. The temple grows larger with every step, floodlights carving harsh shadows between the pylons. Vernon keeps pace, his anger crackling like the lightning you swore you saw the day before.

"You just came out of shock. You're running on adrenaline," he argues.

"I'm fine."

You stop at the wooden steps leading down to the site. The night wind whistles through the pylons, carrying faint voices up to you. You start down the steps and Vernon grabs your arm.

"I'm serious, Stacks. Go back to your tent."

You wrench free. "Why do you care? You don't even like me."

"You think I dragged you out of that bloodbath just to watch you walk back in? I don't have to like you. I have common fucking sense."

The words hit harder than you expect but you swallow, lifting your chin. "I'm not helpless."

"I didn't say you were, Gods above!" His voice drops, lethal. "But you're human. And whatever is in there isn't. We should leave."

You search his face, looking for the lie, the flippant mask. It isn’t there. Right now it's just raw frustration and something close to fear.

"Then come with me."

He laughs, short and bitter. “That’s not how this works.”

"Suit yourself."

You shove past him down the remaining steps, trying not to make eye contact with the falcon statues as they watch you pass. Vernon curses behind you and you hear him scramble to keep up.

"Why are you so stubborn?" He demands as you pass through the opening. Cool air greets you and you shiver, turning on a flashlight despite the floodlights guiding the way. You hear voices from a distance, but most of the main temple is empty. "You don't even have a weapon.

"I don't need one."

"Do you not remember yesterday?"

You do remember yesterday, though the memory is hard to grasp. Never in your life did you dare to believe in monsters and mummies, too afraid that you'd spend your career following loose threads and nonsense like your mother, but those creatures had been real. The blood had been real. So had the death.

It's what drives you at a breakneck pace through the temple now, determined to stop whatever Voss was doing to save himself and those with him from disaster you're sure is about to happen.

Halfway down the main corridor, where the floodlights from the entrance no longer reach, Vernon stops abruptly. He catches your wrist again, pulling you to a halt.

"Stop." His grip tightens, not painful - never painful - but immovable. "You want to play the hero, fine. But not tonight. Not after what happened yesterday. Wait until the morning."

The hallway feels smaller, suddenly, the walls pressing in. Somewhere deeper, a tool clangs against stone. It echoes your pounding heart, the smell of Vernon's woody cologne and sweat making you dizzy. You realize how close he is and try to step back but he doesn't let you, crowding your space.

His fingers stay locked around your wrist, warm even through the layers of dust and sweat, his thumb pressed against your pulse. His body blocks most of the faint light spilling from deeper inside, leaving you half in shadow.

Up close, you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes flicker from your face to the darkness and back again, like he's fighting some sort of war you're not privy to.

"Let go," you murmur. "Please."

He doesn't. For a long, suspended moment, neither of you moves. The air between you turns to static. His gaze drops to your mouth for the briefest second, so quick you think you imagined it, then snaps back up. Something like frustration flickers across his face before he shakes his head.

"You are shaking, Stacks."

"I'm fine."

The words hang heavy. You're hyper aware of how alone you are, how the rest of the world feels miles away behind layers of stone and sand. For one second you think Vernon might pull you closer, but he doesn't. His shoulders sag as the fight bleeds out of him and he lets you go.

"Fine." He steps back. "Do what you want."

He retreats deeper into the shadows and you watch as his faint outline melts into the dark. The space he leaves behind feels cold and empty, your wrist tingling where he held you. Swallowing, you shove down the fluttering feeling in your stomach and turn, determined to stop disaster before it can happen again.

The beam of your flashlight cuts a narrow tunnel through the black, the light jittery with every hurried step. The temple swallows the sounds of your boots on stone, your ragged breathing, the pounding of your heart.

The hypostyle hall feels endless, the columns rising like the ribs of some colossal beat, their lotus capitals lost in shadow. The floodlights from the entrance have faded, and the darkness swallows you save for the glow of a portable lamp left behind by Voss's team every few meters.

You pass the sanctuary chamber where you first found the warning and something presses down on you, the air changing. The corridor narrows, forcing you to turn sideways in places. your shoulder brushes basalt etched with faded scenes of victories - pharaohs trampling enemies, Montu towering above, spear dripping with blood.

A low murmur of voices drifts from ahead. You slow, clicking off the flashlight to let your eyes adjust to the dim glow spilling from the lower chamber. The same chamber where the revenant poured out hours ago. The air is warmer here, carrying the metallic tang of fresh blood and your stomach knots.

Edging the threshold, you peer inside and the scene stops your heart.

Portable floodlights have been arranged in a rough circle, casting harsh white beams that leave the ceiling lost in absolute black. In the center of the bloodstained flagstones, a pattern has been drawn into the ground out of charcoal, the lines forming a vast cartouche of interlocking falcons and spears. At its heart lies a low basalt altar that looks older than the rest of the temple, its surface pitted and dark.

Voss stands at the altar's head, sleeves of his shirt rolled high. His expensive watch glints as he arranges tools with reverent precision - a broken khopesh, a bowl of natron, a golden vessel that catches the light like liquid fire. Dr. el-Masri stands behind him, an ancient papyrus unrolled in trembling hands.

Two security men flank them, rifles slung blue sidearms ready. Kneeling in the center is a woman from the security team - Nadia, you think. She's tall and broad-shouldered, her dark hair cropped short. She's stripped to a black tank top and her skin is gleaming with oil, her eyes closed and face tilted up.

It's a ritual space.

Your stomach lurches as your mind pieces together all of the details - the warnings, the sealed gate, war walking anew. The temple contains Montu, the unbound fury.

Patrons aren't always what they seem.

You think of Vernon's words. How the entire temple is painted with pharaohs and the mark of Montu, their god. How it is an ode to his victories. You realize Voss tends to wake Montu - or perhaps, to let Nadia make him her patron, if such a thing is possible and if you were to believe in something beyond like your mother always had.

You step into the light before you can think better of it, fury and fear colliding as you say, "Stop."

Heads snap toward you. Nadia's eyes remain closed, but Dr. el-Masri's eyes widen as he looks at you. Voss smiles unpleasantly but beckons you in.

"Doctor, welcome. We're just about to get started."

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Finally starting what I have been after for years." He gestures to the altar. "As you have figured out, this temple is not a treasury. It was a prison."

"You're trying to wake a god." Your eyes flicker to Nadia. "And… bind it? That's madness. Montu isn't a tool. Historically, he's slaughter incarnate, the texts-"

"The texts," Dr. el-Masri interrupts, "Are written by heretics. In Ancient Egypt, the understanding that rulers were divinely chosen was so absolute, that it was the single thing Egyptians agreed on for thousands of years."

You laugh, sharp and disbelieving. "It is the belief in divine rulership that led them to dehumanize their own population. To think onesself is a god is different to think oneself is a king. When you're a god, everyone is beneath you and you become infallible. People are not infallible, Dr. el-Masri."

Voss sighs. "You're a scholar, Doctor. You of all people should appreciate the pursuit of knowledge."

"This isn't knowledge. This is hubris. Which you both should know was the downfall of Egypt time and time again."

Voss smiles thinly. "Call it what you like. Nadia volunteered. She understands the honor." Voss looks at his security team. "Doctor, you should join us."

The security men move faster than you expect. One grabs your arms from behind while the other clamps a hand over your mouth before you can scream. You thrash, kicking and twisting, but they're heavy and trained. Your flashlight clatters to the stone, the beam spinning wildly.

Together, they drag you toward the altar. You feel your heart pounding as you scream, muffled by the man's hand. You bite down on his fingers and he yelps, pulling his hand away. Your scream of rage echoes in the temple, cut off as the other man drives his knee into your spine to force you down at the altar.

The stone is cold and you roll over to kick at them. They grab your legs and hold you down, binding your hands and feet as you scream your throat raw. Nadia ignores you and Voss sighs as someone stuffs your mouth with cloth. You strain against the cords, but they don't move, your muscles aching as you thrash.

Dr. el-Masri begins reading from the papyrus and you stop, looking at him with pleading eyes. He ignores you, reading words of ancient invocation to Montu, Lord of Terror, He Who Makes the Nile Red.

Nadia stirs. You snap your head toward her, watching as her eyes open, pupils blown wide, irises flickering for a second. You're reminded of Vernon's eyes suddenly, the feeling that something ancient and feral was scraping behind his gaze, that-

Pain explodes, white-hot between your ribs. You look down to see that Voss has driven a blade in your stomach and you scream, arching against your restraints. The pain is so bad that you see flashes of white in your vision, the terror taking over as blood wells hot and immediate, soaking your shirt and pooling onto the altar.

Dr. el-Masri's voice rises, chanting faster. The floodlights flicker. Sand begins to sift from cracks in the ceiling. Wind howls.

Power foods the chamber like a sandstorm. The air burns and you squint, sobbing around the gag in your mouth. Nadia convulses, her body arching impossible as golden light pours from her eyes and her mouth. The temperature in the room skyrockets, heat buffeting you as temple groans and you hear cracking stone, a column in the corner tilting as it breaks and crashing into the ground in a plume of dust and rot.

Voss stumbles back, grinning. "It's working."

A basalt block falls from the ceiling, shattering near Dr. el-Masri. He screams as he completes the ritual and when you turn to look at Nadia, she's no longer entirely Nadia. She rises to her feet smoothly, head tilted as if listening to something distant. Her gaze passes over you without recognition, then she turns to Voss.

"You have freed me and given me a vessel," Nadia says, but the language is ancient from a time beyond Voss's comprehension. "What is it you seek?"

It's Dr. el-Masri who answers, "We seek Maahes, the hunter."

Nadia grins. "Come."

They leave the temple as it begins to collapse. Nadia pauses as she passes you, her eyes flicking to the knife in your stomach. She bends down and just as you think she's going to remove it, she twists it. Your shriek is lost to the gag, the pain leaving you blinded and heaving, throat convulsing around the cloth as you gag.

When you blink again, they're all gone, leaving you alone with the dark and the growing roar of falling sand and a collapsing ceiling.

Blood bubbles in your throat. Each breath is shallower than the last. The pain starts to fade and is replaced with something different, something cold creeping up your limbs. Sand pours in through the ceiling now through widening fissures, cascading like waterfalls, and for a moment you think of your dream with the lioness and the sand falling upward.

You stare at the ceiling as the world crumbles. Somewhere far above, there are stars you'll never see again.

Please, you think, unable to speak. Anyone.

Nothing answers but the sound of cracking basalt.

You think of Vernon - his rough hands steady in the med tent, the way he looked at you in the corridor like he wanted to say something more. You wish you'd listened. Wish you said something kinder to him when he was just trying to help.

You think of your mother. Her smile over that pottery shard. The way she said your name like a promise. Like hope. You pray that wherever she is now, she isn't watching this, that she isn't seeing your violent, bloody end.

Sand peppers your face. It's almost gentle, and your eyes flutter as darkness clouds your vision.

Child of blood, a voice calls, low and furious. You are in need of vengeance.

You can't move your head, but you feel something, heat in the cold, pressure against the collapsing dark. A presence that is vast and beyond your understanding, scented with the desert sun and spilled blood.

They woke war, the voices continues. And left you to pay the price. I know war too, child of blood. Let me pave the way.

Yes, you think. Yes.

Yes, the voice agrees. But not gently. Not without cost.

The sand stops falling.

Fire ignites at the edge of your vision, gold and crimson, licking along the cracks in the stone. It doesn't burn the temple - it burns you.

Pain flares anew, different now. Your blood steams, your wounds sear shut. You smell charred linen as the cords binding you turn to ash. Sand near you crystalizes to glass, crunching as you scream, the gag in your mouth burning until you're choking on ash, your screams loud in the chamber. Your body arches against the altar as power pours into you, vast and ancient and furious. Every nerve sings and your lungs fill with heated air that tastes of life instead of death.

Call me the Eye Unbound, the voice tells you, growing in volume, her laughter hot. I drink what spills. I burn away the unworthy. I am Sekhmet and you are my vessel.

Sekhmet's laughter echoes through your skull, wild and approving.

Rise daughter, she purrs. There is hunting to do.

The fire settles in your veins like molten gold cooling to armor. Your eyes open, and the chamber is lit from within you, crimson light spilling from your skin. The temple around you is collapsed, but there's a perfect ring of protection around you, the symbols flaring with scarlet light.

You sit up. Blood flakes from your shirt. The knife is now on the ground and when you lift your shirt to peer at your stomach, the stab wound is a ridged scar, glowing faintly. The light from you fades, but you realize that you can see unnaturally in the darkness.

Yes, Sekhmet says when she feels your surprise. You are changed.

Somewhere above, you hear chaos. You don't know what it is, but thunder shakes the temple violently. You feel Sekhmet as though she is you, as though you are one. Like Montu and Nadia, host and patron.

They run, she purrs when you think of Montu. Shall we chase?

You stand in the rubble. You feel white hot rage go through you, stronger than anything you've ever felt before. You see a red sky. Red sands. A red river. Blankets of scarlet red blood, and a lioness walking across hot sand as she burns away the unworthy.

Voss is unworthy. And he has Montu with him, a god with a vessel, just like you.

"Yes," you say out loud, your voice raw. "We chase."

-

Vernon storms out of the temple, his boots grinding against the flagstones with each step. The corridor blurs around him, shadows twisting like smoke, the floodlights from the entrance flickering at his approach. Anger coils tight in his chest, hot and familiar, a companion he's known longer than most people.

But this time it's sharper and laced with frustration.

Stubborn idiot, he thinks, the words aimed at you but ricocheting back at himself. Why couldn't you listen? Just once? He slams a fist against a column as he passes, the impact echoing like thunder in the enclosed space as the column instantly collapses with the force of his punch. Pain flares in his knuckles, but it's nothing compared to the storm brewing inside of him.

Set stirs at the edge of his mind, a presence as constant as his own heartbeat. The god's amusement rolls through him like distant thunder. Idiot. You let her goad you. Again.

Shut up, Vernon snaps internally, clenching his jaw. He doesn't need Set's commentary right now. Not when his blood is singing with the urge to turn back and drag you out kicking and screaming if it he's to. He doesn't want to hurt you, but he will drag you, even if it means you never speak to him again or you curse his name every day. At least you'd be alive.

The god chuckles. She challenges you. I like her fire. I see why you like her.

Vernon ignores him. He has no intention of going round and round in circles with Set about who or what Vernon does or does not like. The god has a particular habit of showing up every time Vernon sees you, prodding him in ways that almost make him lose his cool at auctions, galas and conferences. Set seems entirely incapable of letting Vernon admire you from afar without meddling, and right now when the world is collapsing is not the time for an ancient god's meddling.

The entrance to the temple looms ahead, the night air spilling in cool drafts. Vernon pauses at the threshold between the temple's door and the open desert. The pylons loom like sentinels and he looks at the falcons, their eyes eroded but watchful, like the eyes of Montu are ready to strike at any moment. He leans against a wall, breathing hard, trying to rein in the chaos inside of him - trying to reign in Set.

This whole expedition was supposed to be simple. Or as simple as anything gets when one is bound to a god of chaos. Vernon had heard whispers of the site months ago, rumors in a black market antiquities circle that he haunts, tales of a storm uncovering a temple tied to a bound god.

Vernon has been with Set for eight years now, but he's never stopped trying to get rid of him. It had started in a forgotten tomb in the Valley of the Kings back when Vernon was just a cocky archaeologist fresh out of his degree program, chasing glory like everyone else in the field. He'd been a bit rogue then too, not waiting for a permit before he started poking around.

Like Voss, he'd opened a sealed chamber he shouldn't have and Set had poured into him like sand through an hourglass, violent and overwhelming, reshaping Vernon into a cage for divinity.

Call me He Who Howls in Open Places, Set had whispered, his voice crackling. Call me the Red One, the Unmoored, the Crooked Star. Do not call me Brother, for brothers bind. I am Set.

Vernon had survived. Set is good at keeping his host alive. He'd walked through the desert with new tattoos burning fresh on his skin, hieroglyphs of binding and Coptic words of containment.

Since then, it's been a constant war. Set grants Vernon gifts - strength beyond human limits, control over storms, the ability to step through shadow. But the god's volatility amplifies Vernon's own anger, his own emotions.

And Set hungers. Always for chaos. Always for unmooring the world.

Vernon wishes this dig had worked out. He'd been hoping to find something here to unbind him, but he hadn't been expecting you to be here. When you'd shown up two days ago, Vernon's entire plan changed. You don't like him much - he doesn't blame you - but Vernon's been fond of you for years. Likes your work ethic, the genuine desire to do good, to seek truth.

He'd been like that once. Now he trades in artifacts and secrets to survive, trying to use relics to fund his way out of this mess with Set.

We are one, Set reminds him now. You seek to cut the thread, but it binds us tighter.

I didn't ask for this, Vernon reminds him, rubbing his tattoos. They're bothering him tonight, hot and itchy.

No one asks for divinity. It takes.

Now, Vernon doesn't know what to do. He'd realized Voss' intent to bind a god when you'd found the inscription the day before. After the aftermath with the revenants, he had planned to let you sleep it off and force you to leave in the morning. He had not anticipated you being a pig-headed fool and charging into a temple at night, refusing his help.

He doesn't know why it bothers him so much. He lets you have your assumptions about him. It's better than the truth, not that you would believe him. He saves ancient sites too, redirecting looters and forging documents to return artifacts when he can. It isn't all about stealing like you think it is - he does try. You see none of that, of course. Why would you?

She sees more than you think, Set sighs. Smart girl. I think you are hopeless, though.

Vernon growls and pushes off the wall muttering, "Not now."

He starts toward the camp, intent on packing your things himself. Then, he’d walk back inside the temple and he'd force you out and shove you into a jeep and send you back to Cairo. Karim could drive - he was reliable - and Vernon trusted him not to ask questions.

A tremor stops Vernon cold.

It starts subtle, a vibration underfoot. Then it grows stronger, the ground shuddering as sand shifts in ripples. Dust sifts from the gateway arch and the pylons groan.

Vernon's head snaps back toward the temple. Set surges in his mind, alert and hungry. War awakens. The falcon stirs.

"Fuck," Vernon hisses. He didn't think Voss would manage this quickly, or he wouldn't have let you keep walking into the temple.

He runs.

Vernon plunges back into the darkness, shadows dancing around him. His form flickers as he shadow steps, blinking in and out of existence from one pool of dark shadows to the next, covering ground faster. He hates the feeling of shadow stepping, fading from a physical body to mist and back again, but he suffers it to get to you faster.

Voss and his team burst from a side corridor and spills across Vernon's path. Nadia is leading them, except Vernon realizes it's not Nadia. Her eyes burn gold, pupils slitted, and she thrums with power, a god in a fresh vessel. Vernon recognizes it immediately, reminded of the first time Set stepped into him.

Voss spots Vernon first. "Chwe! The temple is collapsing, let's go."

Vernon ignores him, eyes locked on Nadia. Set roils inside of him, ancient hatred flaring. Brother no more. The ordered one, the betrayer, let me tear him free.

Not yet, Vernon snarls back, but the power in him builds anyway, wind whipping in the corridor.

Nadia tilts her head and smiles. "Voss, did you know you already had a god in your midst? The Crooked Star. How fitting to see you slither here."

Her voice is layered, Nadia's timbre overlaid with a deep rumble that must belong to Montu. She raises a hand and the air shimmers as a spear materializes from nothing, bronze and ethereal, tip glinting. Vernon realizes this is a manifestation of one of her gift, a weapon forged from divine will.

She hurls the spear but Vernon shadow steps sideways, reappearing in a flicker of shadows as he summons storms. Wind howls through the temple, violent and unchecked. Overhead, thunder cracks, the chaos feeding on his frustration and fear that you're hurt or worse. Lightning arches from Vernon's fingertips and slam into Nadia, knocking her back.

The air compresses around her and she summons a shield of air and flame. "You rage, Unmoored one."

"You are a child," Set answers through Vernon, hissing. "I will show you power."

Vernon steps through a shadow, feeling the brief cold of nothingness before he materializes behind Nadia. His fist connects with her back, his enhanced strength crumpling her tactical vest like paper. She spins faster than any human, a khopesh appearing in her hand. The blade sings and Vernon ducks, feeling the heat of the divine weapon as it skims over him, nearly taking his head clean off his shoulders.

Nadia's blows are seismic, each one backed with the heat and power of the sun. He shadow steps mid-swing, flickering in and out, landing hits on her from impossible angles that make her roar in frustration. Set cackles in Vernon's head, the older god trickier and slipperier than his younger family member.

Set is strong, but the storm Vernon commands feeds on him. His anger at you, at Voss, at this cursed bond - it amplifies everything, making the wind in the temple erratic, lightning sparking and exploding against rock. A bolt blasts a column and brings down chunks of the ceiling, sending Voss and the others running while Nadia stays to fight off Vernon.

Set howls in delight, his energy snapping. Rend the falcon!

Nadia presses him, a spear grazing his side, searing flesh. He hisses in pain, but pain fuels the storm as a crackling spear of white lightning forms in his hand. Vernon feels himself start to slip, Set taking over his thoughts and body more fully as the bolt manifests into a solid spear of lightning, his blood singing.

He spins the spear in his hand, beating Nadia back. She might be host to the god of war, but Set is an ancient chaos not easily beaten, and Vernon sees the frustration on Nadia's face as Vernon''s spear catches her across the thigh, burning flesh. She howls, the cavern shaking, rock falling.

The temple is crumbling, he realizes. And somewhere in the temple is you, left behind. Sacrificed, maybe. Dead, maybe.

That single thought cuts through Vernon's rage like a blade.

No, Set protests, surging for control. The enemy is here!

She's more important.

The god recoils. Is she?

Vernon forces the god into submission, drawing the storm inward, coiling it tight. Nadia lunges at him but he shadow-steps away, breaking the engagement.

She laughs, spinning on him. "Cowardice from chaos? How novel."

"I don't have time for you," he growls, stepping into another shadow and turning to nothing.

Set rages as Vernon plunges into the temple, running and jumping deeper. You deny me glory for her?

She's not dying tonight.

The god subsides, grudging but curious. Very well. But the falcon will pay later.

Vernon doesn't disagree. He wants to rip the god from Nadia's skull as much as Set does, knowing that Montu being set out onto the world can't be any good. Especially because Nadia doesn't seem interested in controlling her god the way Vernon controls his.

The temple fights him as he approaches the chamber, the floor shaking and the ceiling caving in. Vernon summons energy, feeling the air around him compress as he thrusts a hand out, blasting a wall of rock with kinetic bursts. Rock flies, the covering choking with dust, but he does it again and again, crackling with energy as he carves his way to you.

His trek is an exhausting combination of shadow stepping through partial collapses and blasting his way through the tunnel, the thunder deafening in his ears. Set is silent, his fascination at Vernon's desperation palpable.

Set has never seen Vernon this eager to save someone. Ever.

Fear eats at him. He should have made you leave the second he knew what Voss was up to. It had been his pride and his desire to let you make your own choices that left you lingering here in this cursed place, and now he knew you were most likely dead.

The thought drives him harder at the wall, blasting through the final bit of collapsed columns and basalt. He has no idea how you'd survive a temple collapse, but he doesn't care. He needs to know. Needs to get to you. Needs to do what he can to right his wrong of leaving you here.

Vernon's side burns from the spear wound Montu gave him, but Set knits the skin slowly as Vernon waits for the dust choking the air to clear. Vernon swallows thickly, waiting and panting as the air finally starts to clear and he can see the inner ritual chamber.

Sand fills most of the space, a sea of golden death. His stomach drops when he realize you're probably in here suffocating somewhere, terrified and-

Light catches his attention. Vernon goes entirely still as red light blazes from a figure standing amid the ruin, crimson and bloody as the light starts to fade behind soot-covered skin.

You.

There's a khopesh in each one of your hands, outstretched and gleaming crimson. Tattoos wind your arms, red and blazing before cooling to a dusky, desert red. When your eyes open, your irises are aflame, pupils stilted like a lion's, glowing like freshly forged gold.

Set's wariness surprises Vernon, the god slithering in his mind. The Eye Unbound, he growls. She who drinks what spills. She who burns the unworthy. Sekhmet.

Vernon doesn't know what that means and he doesn't care. He hardly hears set at all, distracted by the terrifying display before him. You look beautiful, blazing in glory and anger and rage, but most importantly, alive. And then the light fades from your eyes and you blink at him, confused and wincing.

"Vernon?"

It's the last thing you say before your eyes glaze over and you collapse backward.

-

Your entire world is sand. The horizon stretches endlessly in each direction and the sun hangs unnaturally low, rays bleeding over the world like a wounded god. The grains of sand under you shift restlessly, pressing into your skin hot.

Heat simmers in the distance, distorting the air. You sit cross-legged in the center of endless dunes, and no matter which direction you look, the sea of red sands are endless. Timeless.

Across from you, the lioness manifests in a waver of heat. Sekhmet. She's massive, her form towering over you, a monument of divine fury. Her coat gleams gold-red, her fur rippling with power as she settles onto her haunches.

She stares at you and it's unnerving. Her feline features are etched with eons of wisdom, fangs glinting like polished obsidian when she yawns. Behind her, the red sun halos her head, a perfect red disk - a crown.

"You were not ready," she notes. Her voice is a low, resonant rumble that resonates through you, mouth moving to form the words. You stare, entranced. "Unfortunate."

"I didn't exactly have time to prepare," you reply, voice small. You can tell she's disappointed, but it isn't every day you become host to a powerful ancient entity. "I wasn't expecting the power to burn through me like that."

She chuffs, amused. "Mortals rarely do." She shifts, paws sinking in the sand. "I have kept vigil over these places of sealing, the tombs where gods slumber and remain chained. I keep those who should not be here away - a whisper in the wind to deter the greedy, a dream to haunt the foolish. A scorpion slipped into a bedroll under the cover of night."

The scorpion. Your mind flashes back to that morning, the segmented touch against your skin, the careful capture and release. An omen you'd brushed off, feeling silly for thinking of superstitions. Now you know it was a deliberate nudge from the divine, a warning.

"You bled for the truth," Sekhmet acknowledges. "For chasing the thread your mother left behind for you. You are honest. Honesty is good."

The desert around you seems to shift at her words, the red sands undulating. You think of your mother, wondering if this is what she had envisioned when believing there were hidden histories in Egypt.

"What happens now?" You ask the goddess.

"Now you carry me, and I you. We are bound, flesh to flame." She pauses, ears flicking. "Beware the one who carries the Crooked Star."

"Vernon."

"Sutekh. He walks again in the flesh, hungry. He is volatile and is capable of great evil if left to his own devices for too long. Empires have fallen to his whims, rivers diverted, brothers slain for sport. Chaos is his domain."

You think of Vernon and his dark eyes, the way you could see something ancient there, something he fights to keep under the surface. Vernon, who had pulled you from carnage and steadied you through shock. Vernon who had come back for you against all reason, and who had guarded your tent.

Guilt eats at you. You've spent years thinking of him as a spur in your side, an annoying bee that wouldn't stop stinging every chance he had. Now you owe him your life, and you realize perhaps you have been too harsh on him, too cruel.

"Vernon fights Set," you insist gently. "I've seen him do it."

Sekhmet shrugs, the motion a powerful ripple of muscle and fur. "For now. Mortals break under divine weight. Gods endure. We are unyielding."

The sand begins to whirl around you, rising in spiraling vortices that tug your clothes and hair. You feel the dismissal, and when you look up, the lioness is gone, but her voice still carries on the ancient wind.

Remember. Vengeance is a blade with two edges. Wield it carefully.

The red sun flares and you shield your eyes, flinching-

You wake gasping, lungs seizing. You swivel in bed, the sheets sticking to your sweaty skin. It takes a moment to get your bearings, but you realize that you're in the med tent, dim light from the moon outside filtering in.

Outside, the camp is unnaturally silent, a void where there should be a hum of activity. The wind is restless against the canvas tent, snapping in the breeze. Some of the cool air reaches you, cooling your overwarm skin.

Your body aches with a deep resonant thrum. You feel as if your bones have been hollowed and refilled with molten iron, the fire coursing through you new but not unpleasant. You lift your shirt to look at your stomach, cringing at the scar. You touch it tentatively, feeling the warmth behind it, the ridged tissue coiled with power.

Suddenly you become aware of someone else's presence. You look up to see Vernon sitting in a folding chair near the tent flap, elbows braced on his knees. His posture is slumped but alert, his eyes sharp as they stare at you. The moonlight slipping in through the canvas cuts across the sharp angles of his face, panting him in harsh light.

His shirt is torn at the shoulder, bloodstains dried rusty brown. His tattoos seem to writhe subtly in the dim light, and now that you look at them, they make more sense than they ever have: He Who Howls in Open Places. Red One. Unmoored. Crooked Star. Bind and balance, storm and dust.

With new eyes, you see the ritual for what it is - a binding sigil, scoured into Vernon's arms to tie him to Set. You look at your own arms and let out a little gasp, seeing similar markings twist on your arms, but they're a dull red, like blood dried millenia ago.

"You're awake," he observes.

You swing your legs over the cot's edge, the sand floor cold against your feet. Testing your balance, you stand. He moves like he's ready to catch you if you fall, but despite the world tipping, you remain on your feet.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"About 20 hours. It's night again."

Vernon stands and moves the flap open. Moonlight spills in like liquid silver. You notice a cookfire out in front, highlighting scattered medical supplies and materials from the camp Vernon has dragged to the front of the tent for ease.

You step outside and he follows. The night is crisp, the sky above stretching in a luminous river of stars overheard. The camp sprawls out, a ghost city left to just the two of you. Tents sag like deflated lungs, their white canvases stained with and and blood. Deep tire tracks in the sand show that the cars are gone, leading into oblivion. You notice the dark patches in the sand, your gut twisting when you realize it's blood.

"They took the vehicles," he notes. "Drove off eastward toward the old trade routes."

Your stomach twists, guilt and horror mingling as you survey the desolation. You wrap your arms around yourself, the wind tugging at your clothes. "How many dead?"

"Enough."

You look at Vernon - really look at him. The moonlight carves his profile in silver relief, the strong line of his jaw flexing as he grits his teeth in frustration, his eyes flashing in ancient anger. He's been watching over you, alone in this forsaken place, a testament to loyalty you never credited him with.

"I didn't think you'd come back," you admit.

"You're an idiot. Of course I came back. I wasn't leaving you buried under a bunch of rock, though knowing you, you were exactly where you wanted to be."

The joke falls a little flat. His tone is softened around the edges, almost affectionate. It makes your heart do something stupid, and you don't know how to answer as the words hang between you. You feel a shift, your entire perception of him changing in just a day.

"Vernon-"

He tenses. "Don't."

"Alright."

"Let's just make dinner. I'm starving."

Together, you scavenge the items Vernon has dragged to the med tent. You have to go scout for a few, the two of you working together in charged silence. You gather pots, some flatbread that is a little hard, dates in a small sack, a can of tea leaves and a can of stew meat.

The fire is already going, casting a warm glow that pushes back against the night's chill. You sit across from him on a folded blanket, knees almost touching as you watch him brew tea. He hands you a chipped mug, fingers brushing yours briefly. His touch sparks a connection, his fingers lingering briefly before he pulls away and you wrap your hands around it, letting the heat seep into your palms.

Both of you settle, the meat stewing in the pot over the fire. The moon is a bright silver coin in the sky, looking down at the two of you, pale face watchful.

"Tell me how it happened," you say quietly. "With Set."

Vernon stares into the fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes. The firelight paints his face in gold and shadow, softening the sharp lines you've always associated with arrogance. Now you see weariness. Vulnerability.

"Valley of the Kings," he murmurs. "Eight years ago. Found a chamber no one had catalogued and I just went in head first. I was arrogant then - still am, I guess. You know what it's like to chase after knowledge and glory though."

He pauses, touching the tattoos on his forearm absently. His fingers trace the ink, as if seeking reassurance.

"Set was waiting. Poured right into me, though I didn't know what was happening. Unlike Nadia, I was not a willing host. Everyone else died. I woke up three days later with these marks and a god laughing in my head."

You listen, guilt turning your stomach over. All this time you'd look at Vernon and see vanity and rebellion. Now you see him for what he truly is - tired under the weight of being a prison for something most people cannot fathom.

"He isn't evil," Vernon says slowly. "Not exactly. Chaos isn't evil - it's change without permission. It's discord and upheaval and it frightens people. But he is not inherently evil, though I suppose many can argue that the results make him so." A faint smile tugs his lips. "We fight constantly. I win sometimes. Sometimes I don't."

"Sekhmet told me to beware him. That you might not be able to contain him."

"Maybe she's right, but I'm pretty stubborn. I've been doing this for eight years and I'm better at it now than I was then." He sighs. "Your turn."

You tell him what happened in the chamber - about the altar, the cold stone against your skin. The way Voss stabbed you in the gut to bleed you out for the ritual. You see anger flash in his eyes then, raw and ancient. Somewhere, thunder rumbles and you cast your eyes up toward a clear sky, wondering how confident Vernon is in his control.

"Her wrath was overwhelming," you admit. "Sekkmet is a lot of things. She's purification through fire, she's war, she's Ra's divine justice. But she is also full of wrath, and it's so at ends with who I am. But I was angry and desperate and afraid of dying."

"No shame in that. Sometimes we want retribution for the things that happen to us."

"Is that what you're searching for? Retribution?"

"More like freedom. Set is alright but it's been a long time since I've had my thoughts to myself."

"He's talkative?"

"Sekhmet isn't?"

You shake your head. You feel her there, watching your conversation with Vernon like a predator, but she keeps her thoughts to herself. She is a hot grain of sand in the back of your mind, subtle but there.

"Must be nice." He grunts, amused. "Set whispers chaos. Tries to push for opportunities to unmake things. Burn it all down and rebuild something new on the ashes. Most days I can tune him out. Some days…"

He shrugs, the motion casual but his eyes hold yours, heavy with a vulnerability you've never seen from him before. Without thinking, you reach toward him, brushing your fingers across his wrist. The contact sparks again, but this time it's literal.

Crimson flame licks down your arm and you jump, watching your tattoos come to life. Lightning dances across Vernon's arm, white-blue and staticky. The flame and lightning meet in a swirl of energy that tingles but doesn't burn, twining like old friends.

Neither of you pulls away, watching with parted lips as the colors shift until they fade. His tattoos burn faint blue, yours dark red, both of you lingering until the tattoos fade and the power vanishes beneath the surface of your skin again.

Vernon's mouth twitches. "He says like calls to like."

Hm, Sekhmet hums, displeased. I'm not so sure about that.

"What about Voss," you ask, drawing your hand back slowly. Vernon frowns. "What do you think he's planning?"

"Power. I just don't understand what."

"When I was in the temple, Voss asked Montu to lead him to Maahes."

That stirs Sekhmet. You feel her uncurl like a feline, her anger sparking as she paces in your mind. You give her a questioning prod and she growls.

My son.

"Oh," you say outloud. Vernon raises his brows, confused. "Maahes is the son of Sekhmet. I forgot. The lion to the lionness."

Traitor, she hisses. Folly. They claim he perfects what I cannot, that he is discipline where I am unchecked.

"Well do you know where they're going?" You wince and look at Vernon. "Sorry, is there a way to not talk to myself when I'm trying to talk to her? This is awkward."

"She can read your thoughts. I just think at Set and it sort of works. Sometimes I talk out loud too, though. Especially when he's pissing me off."

There is a temple deep in Wadi Al-Hitan, Sekhmet hisses. It is where he is bound. Maahes knows the way to Apophis.

You repeat what she said to Vernon. The reaction is instant, his face twisting in anger as his entire body goes rigid. His pupils blow wide and black, lines of white and molten blue crawling along his tattoos. The wind around the fire picks up, whipping sand into spirals that hiss against the fire.

A sound tears out of Vernon, not quite human, not quite animal. It's the howl of the desert storm giving voice, centuries of hatred pressed into a single note. The fire gutters and you instinctually hold out a palm, feeling power radiate through you as you buffet the flame.

"Apophis," Vernon snarls, laced with a voice that isn't his own. "They're going to wake the serpent."

You feel Sekhmet growl, her words coming through you. "Let them try."

Vernon's hands tremble, his knuckles white as he makes a fist. "Set has been Apophis's executioner since the world was new. Every dawn, every night, he drives the spear into the serpent's throat so the sun can rise again. If Voss means to unleash Apophis-"

He cuts himself off, swearing in Ancient Egyptian. The words are strange and guttural in his mouth, spoken with the perfect accent and articulations. The words resonate with you in a different way now than they had before, a language you studied becoming a language you instinctually know.

"Voss wants to be a vessel off Apophis."

"And destroy the fucking world while he's at it," Vernon growls.

Set surges again, a tide of lightning behind Vernon's eyes. The tattoos pulse like living things, wards straining. For a heartbeat, you think he's going to let loose and set the entire camp ablaze in lighting. But he breathes through it, slow and deliberate, forcing the god down by sheer will.

"We cannot let that happen," he murmurs, looking at you. His eyes are his own again, but he looks strainted and tired. "Set likes chaos, but not this. Not at the hand of Apophis."

"We?"

His mouth twitches. "You bailing on me, Stacks?"

Sekhmet's growl is in your voice when you say, "Never."

Vernon nods, grinning at you for the first time since Voss opened the seal to reveal revenants. You smile back, feeling the savage delight of your god as she paces, eager and ready to hunt.

For the first time since Voss stabbed you with that knife, you're not afraid.

You're ready.

-

The sun claws its way over the horizon, spilling molten gold across the dunes. Heat simmers already, distorting the endless sea of sand. Your boots sink ankle-deep with each step you take, the grains shifting as you trek. Your muscles are already screaming, each step requiring effort.

You and Vernon have been walking since dawn, packs heavy with scavenged supplies. You're thankful you have the newfound strength of a god, otherwise you'd never have been able to stuff the packs as much as you have. Water sloshes around in the canteens with each step, your pack stocked full of water, food, and a slim selection of medical supplies.

The medical supplies are a precaution. As evidenced by your recent stabbing, your healing is different now, aided by the goddess who keeps watch inside of you. It's a nice perk - kind of like the fact that you're not out of breath after hours of walking and you're not keeling over - but being the vessel of an ancient entity doesn't make the trek less tiring or the sun less hot.

Barrâmîya lies ahead, a distant smudge on the GPS. The dusty outpost is now your lifeline, though if you can't get a hold of a car you're not sure what the plan is. Wadi al-Hitan is hours away from Luxor, up north in Egypt's Western desert. The Valley of the Whales is vast, and somewhere lies a hidden temple to Maahes, whose location is only known by the gods living inside of you and Vernon.

Vernon walks a pace ahead, keffiyeh wrapped around his head and face to hide him from the sun. His stride is steady despite the heat, and sweat darkens his shirt, clinging to the lines of his back.

"Keep up, Stacks," he calls over his shoulder, smirking at you. "Wouldn't want you collapsing before the sun gets to the worst part of the day."

You roll your eyes but there's no bite in it. Not anymore. His smugness used to grate against you, but now it feels almost comforting. Familiar in a sea of gold and red and endless heat.

"I'm fine, worry about yourself."

"I'm doing great. Set loves the desert."

Sekhmet huffs in your mind, a low growl of disdain. Naive, she purrs. He teases to hide the storm.

You ignore her, focusing on the burn in your thighs as you crest another dun. The sand here is finer, almost silken, slipping away under foot. Wind hisses across the surface, carrying grains that sting your exposed skin like needles. Far off, a hawk circles, its cries loud against the vast silence.

Vernon was right about the sun. It climbs higher, turning the world into a furnace. He keeps you talking though, like he's trying to keep your mind off the heat. It's nice. You tell him about your mother, about how she chased threads of hidden history beneath Egypt.

He pauses on the top of a rise, shielding his eyes against the glare. He smiles, glancing down at you. "She was onto something, I guess. Smart. I see where you get it from."

The heat you feel has nothing to do with the sun. You stop next to him, panting as you both break to take sparing sips of water. "What about you? How'd you get into history?"

"Parents passed when I was a kid - car accident. Uncle took me in. He was a wealthy bastard obsessed with history. He used to drag me to museums and auctions. He was nice, if not a little hyperfocused on his hobbies. He funded my degrees. I thought it was a pretty cool life until Set decided to hitch a ride."

Guilt flickers inside of you. You've judged him for years, only seeing the tomb raider, never the man chained to chaos. "I'm sorry. For um. Well. My assumptions of you the last few years."

We waves it off. "Don't go soft on me now, Stacks. I like the fire."

Your heart does something stupid in your chest, Sekhmet snarling in annoyance. Guard your heart.

The day drags, the sun a hammer pounding relentlessly. Mirages taunt on the edge of your vision, but you both keep moving. Your throat remains parched despite sips of the canteen and exhaustion gnaws as you as the sun dips down toward the late afternoon. Divine energy sustains you, keeping your legs moving when mortal will would fail.

By dusk, Barrâmîya appears. You think it's a mirage at first, but Vernon lets out a sigh of relief and you know it's real. The town is a cluster of low mud-bricked buildings huddled around a well, palms swaying in the breeze. The air cools as you stumble in, the scent of baked earth replaced by spices from a market stall.

Locals eye you warily, two dust-caked strangers staggering in from the desert. Coin speaks louder than questions though, and when Vernon pulls out a wad of folded money, no one looks warily at you again.

The inn you find is a squat structure, walls cracked from the endless sun. Lanterns swing outside in the breeze as the last of the sun dies beyond the horizon. There's only a single room left, and you're both too tired to care. The two narrow cots shoved against opposite walls is good enough for you, a single window letting in moonlight as you collapse on a bed.

Vernon drops onto the bed closest to you, breathing out tiredly. You turn your head to glance at him in the dim light. The room is tiny and though his bed is against the other wall, he's close enough to hear his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest steady. Your eyes trace the tattoos on his arms, inky in the dim.

He catches you looking and smirks. "See something you like, Stacks?"

Heat flushes your cheeks. "Just wondering if you ever shut up."

He laughs. "There's the fire I like."

The room feels smaller as you lie back, staring at the ceiling cracks like ancient veins. Tomorrow, you need to get a car. From there, the wadi. But tonight, you need sleep, despite the fact that the air between you and the man across from you is charged with something new. Just something… more.

-

The sun is a brutal disk of white by the time you and Vernon get into a battered jeep the next morning. Vernon doesn't explain how he had bartered for it - all he'd said was he found a ride as he'd come back into the room before dawn, kicking dust off his boots. You didn't ask, too grateful to not be walking in the blistering heat as he starts the engine with a guttural cough that doesn't sound promising for a lengthy trip.

Inside the car smells like old oil and sun-baked vinyl and the faint smell of storms that you've come to associate with Vernon. He looks tired in the driver's seat, adjusting the rearview mirror, eyes sliding over to you as you buckle your seatbelt.

"Ready?" He asks, voice rough. You nod and make a sound when the vehicle lurches forward, tires spinning in the sound before catching. "My bad."

Behind you, Barrâmîya shrinks to a smudge on the horizon, then nothing. The Western Desert stretches ahead of you, a vast sea of ochre and gold that stretches under a sky so blue you have to shield your eyes to look out the dusty window. Heat rises in shimmering waves, distant rock formations wavering like ghosts in the high-heat of morning.

Hours bleed together as Vernon drives east. There's only a single road that cuts across this part of Egypt, the cars few and far between. Occasionally, the jeep bounces, hitting holes in the road that no one bothers to fix. This far from the main cities, it doesn't matter, but as you near the east coast of Egypt, the road smooths out.

Vernon drives with one hand on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road. You glance at the tattoos peeking from under his rolled sleeves, the ink harsher in the dark light. You look down at your own, the dusty red ink winding in whorls you now understand. Something has shifted between the two of you now, the sharp silences dulling to something softer and far more comfortable. You catch yourself watching the way his fingers flex on the steering wheel, the line of his throat when he swallows, the way his eyes narrow against the glare.

Sekhmet stirs in the back of your mind. Naive, she growls. She seems to favor that word to describe you. He is chaos and wrapped in flesh. Affection is useless.

You ignore her, focusing on the expanding blue of the Red Sea with Marsa Alam rising in the distance. The tropical paradise is at ends with the tension in the car, the desert giving way to a resort town that feels entirely out of place with the violence of the last two days. Vernon says nothing, but the tension in his jaw increases as he turns north to get on the highway and follow the coast.

"What do you think Voss is really after?" You ask eventually, eyes stuck on the endless blue of the Red Sea. "Beyond power, I mean. He has Montu. Why chase Maahes and Apophis?"

Vernon's grip on the wheel tightens. "Apophis is powerful. If Voss can harness that power, he can rewrite the world in his image."

"I don't like that."

"Neither do we."

We. You notice the way he says the word, speaking for him and Set. You wonder how much of Vernon is Set and the other way around. Eight years with a god inside of your head is hard to imagine, even as you feel Sekhmet's prowling silence now. You wonder what it was like for him and what he was like before.

"Set doesn't like Apophis," you note.

Vernon shakes his head. "Set and Apophis have been at each other's throats since the world was new. Set's killed him in many lifetimes. The idea that the serpent could wake under Voss's control is unsettling."

"What was it like for you? With Set, I mean. With Sekhmet it's…" You fight to find words, looking at your hands in your lap, the tattoos dark. "She's always there, but quiet. Sometimes I get the sense that she's pacing, like she's waiting to attack. But it also feels warm. Safe."

"Set's louder. The first year with him was hell, honestly. I'd suddenly get angry and the sky would open up with rain and lightning, or I'd just lose myself to him entirely."

"That sounds terrifying."

"It was. We learned some balance, though."

Unlikely, Sekhmet mutters.

You ignore her. "How'd you do it?"

"I don't fight him head on anymore. Sometimes we have a bit of a fight for control, but ultimately this is my body and I'm still me. When we fight head on, it tires me out and it's easier for him to slip in."

You nod. "Makes sense."

"Some advice - don't ignore her. It's very isolating. Talk to her out loud if you have to. They like being acknowledged and makes them feel less like prisoners and more like partners, even if they're assholes."

Sekhmet huffs in your mind, but there’s a reluctant amusement in it. He is not entirely wrong. Though his god is far louder than I.

You repeat what she says to him and Vernon smirks, glancing at you sidelong. "Set says Sekhmet is stuck up. Old family drama, I think."

The sun climbs higher as the conversation dies out, exhaustion weighing you both down. To the west is an endless landscape of red, to the east, only blue. Vernon's hand brushes yours when he reaches for water, a spark going up your arm. You jerk your hand back, startled. If he notices, he says nothing, uncapping the bottle to take long pulls of water. You catch yourself staring at the line of his throat as he drinks.

By early afternoon you've reached the point of turning west to drive inland again, Wadi al-Hitan still hours away. Your head leans heavy on the head rest, eyes heavy as the jeep ambles. Vernon glances at you, mouth twitching.

"Sleep," he murmurs.

"No, it's okay. We can switch if-"

"Sleep, Stacks. It's been years since Set and I joined, but I remember how exhausting those first few days were. We have about six hours until we hit the Wadi."

"But-"

"Sleep." His tone is gentle, but the way he looks at you brokers no argument. "I need you at your best, yeah?"

Your stomach flutters a little and you nod, sinking down in your seat to lean heavier against the door. The glass is warm on your forehead, the vibrations of the car on the road a constant lull as you close your eyes, trusting Vernon to get you to where you need to go.

The jeep’s engine rumbles low as you drift in and out of uneasy sleep, the road vibrating through the cracked seat and into your bones. The sun has dipped low, painting the desert in deep oranges and blood-reds that bleed across the horizon like an open wound. Heat still clings to you, but you slip into sleep, the world fading.

Black basalt gleams under torchlight, the air thick with myrrh and the crackle of fire from braziers. Vernon stands in the hypostyle hall, shadows clinging to him. He looks different, the blood and dust gone, revealing only the sharp lines of his face that are softened by the firelight. His tattoos glow faintly, the binding wards shifting like living ink as he steps closer, dark eyes locked on you. The space between you shrinks until he's right in front of you, warm breath ghosting across your lips.

His hand comes up, calloused fingers brushing your jaw softly. You shiver and he smiles, tilting his head as his dark eyes drink you in. "You're impossible," he murmurs. "You know that, Stacks?"

You lean into him on instinct, tilting your face into his touch. "Am I?"

He kisses you then. It's anything but soft. Instead, it's hungry and desperate, like he's been holding back for years and the dam is finally broken. His mouth is hot against yours, tasting of salt and desert, his mouth like the static of a storm against yours. One hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair to pull you closer while the other presses against your lower back, anchoring you to him.

The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against yours. You moan into his mouth, shivering as you press into him, hands fisting in shirt, the fabric bunching under your fingers. He makes a low sound in his throat in response and presses you against a column, the cold stone a sharp contrast to the heat of his skin and Sekhmet's fire in your veins.

"Vernon," you whisper, voice broken.

He lifts his head, eyes dark and blown. "What do you need?"

Instead of answering, you pull him back to you, kissing him harder, tongues tangling. His thigh slides between yours, the pressure perfect and maddening. Heat pools low in your belly and-

You flinch awake as Sekhmet's roar shatters the dream like glass. Your heart slams against your ribs as you gather your bearings and realize you're still in the jeep, the engine humming. Night has fully claimed the desert, the sky a vast, black dome scattered with stars so bright they look close enough to touch. The headlights of the car cut twin beams through the darkness, illuminating jagged rock formations as Vernon drives deep into Wadi al-Hitan.

Vernon glances at you. "You okay?"

Your face burns. The dream clings to you - his mouth, his hands, the way your body had arched into him. You can still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin. You sit up straighter, pressing your thighs together against the lingering ache, and clear your throat. “Sorry. Bad dream.”

He glances at you, one eyebrow raised, the corner of his mouth twitching in that familiar smug way. But there’s something softer underneath tonight, a quiet concern in the way his eyes linger.

Sekhmet snarls in your mind, Do not let his shadow touch you so easily.

You ignore her, focusing instead on the road ahead. The wadi has closed in around you, towering sandstone cliffs rising on either side, their layered strata glowing faintly under starlight. Wind whistles through the narrow canyons, carrying faint echoes that sound almost like distant howls that make you shiver.

"We're about an hour into Wadi al-Hitan." Vernon has one hand on the wheel, the other on the gear shift, putting the jeep into all-wheel drive. "I can feel Set pulling toward something, but he's a bit vague. I don't think he knows where to go. Does Sekhmet?"

You nod, closing your eyes for a moment. Sekhmet stirs, still irritated from the dream, but she answers with reluctant precision. You see images flashing behind your eyelids: a narrow side canyon that branches left, a cluster of fossilized whale bones half-buried in the rock face, a steep descent into a hidden valley where the cliffs open up.

"Left at the next fork," you murmur when you open your eyes. "Then follow the dry riverbed until the whale skeletons appear on the right. The temple is beyond them off the road tucked into the cliff wall where the light can't reach."

He doesn't question the instructions. He turns the wheel, the headlights sweeping across jagged rock as he navigates off the road and down the narrow track. The path grows rough, loose stones clattering against the undercarriage as the car creaks with every dip. You can see the cliffs clooming closer, the faces carved by years and years of wind and floods.

The closer you get, the more your anxiety coils. The air grows heavier, charged with the same sense of doom you'd felt in Montu's temple. Sekhmet paces restlessly in your mind, her presence a low burn of anticipation and warning. You can feel her fire under your veins, increasing in temperature as Vernon drives.

You think of the Temple of Montu, of the khopesh twisting deep in your gut, of the pain and the fire, the sand raining down on you as you bled out on the altar. That fear morphs into rage, a small fire at first but gradually blooming into something hot and wild as Sekhmet growls, a huntress closing in on her prey.

"You okay?" He asks, the softness in his voice catching you off guard. "You look tense."

"I can feel the rage," you murmur as you stare ahead. "Both mine and hers. Hers amplifies mine."

"Do you want to talk about it?" You hesitate. "You can tell me, Stacks."

The nickname lands differently now, less mocking, more familiar. You feel the pull to Vernon again, and you wonder if he feels it, this thing between you. Perhaps it's only in your head, amplified by the exhaustion and divine fire hiding inside of you.

"I was so afraid," you whisper, thinking back to those last few moments. "It hurt so much and for a while that was all I could think about. Then I started to get cold and all I could think about was that I hoped wherever my mom is, she couldn't see what happened, that she would never know how I was going to die alone and afraid in a collapsing temple."

Vernon's hands grip the wheel, knuckles going bone white as your words fade. You'd never been afraid to die until it was about to happen. Ancient history had taught you how sacred death was, that dying was just another journey and adventure. But in that single moment alone and bleeding out, you realized how terrifying it was, how painful it was to be entirely alone and without help.

"I'm so fucking sorry," Vernon rasps. You glance up at him to see him staring out the front dash, eyes burning. "I shouldn't have left you. I was angry and I was going to pack your things and come get you and- fuck, Stacks. I shouldn't have left you."

You shrug. "I didn't make it easy on you."

"Doesn't matter. I knew it was dangerous and I thought I could just… do it my way. I'm sorry."

He seems to mean it, Sekhmet sniffs. Interesting.

I told you, you think back to her. He's different.

The goddess says nothing as the jeep descends into a deeper canyon, the walls rising higher until they block out most of the stars. The headlights catch on scattered fossils of massive whale vertebrae that are half-buried in the rock, ancient burns turned to stones over millions of years.

"Slow down here," you murmur, sitting up in the car, entirely awake now. "The entrance is just past the largest skeleton. It looks like a natural fissure, but it opens into the temple courtyard."

Vernon eases off the gas, the jeep crawling forward. The headlights sweep across the cliff face, illuminating a narrow vertical crack in the rock that looks barely wide enough for a person, let alone a vehicle. Beyond it, the darkness is absolute.

He kills the engine but leaves the headlights on. The sudden silence is deafening, broken only by the ticking of cooling metal and the distant sigh of wind through the wadi. Vernon turns to you, one arm draped over the steering wheel, his expression serious in the dashboard glow.

“Ready?” he asks. His voice is quiet, but there’s steel beneath it. “We go in together. No heroics. If it feels wrong, we get out.”

"I'll listen to you this time."

He smirks. "I'll believe it when I see it, Stacks."

You both step out into the cool darkness, your skin turning to goosebumps. The slamming of the jeep door is too loud, echoing in the canyon before dying down. Vernon leads the way to the stone fissure, which is narrower than it looked from the jeep. You have to turn sideways to slip through, your shoulders scraping against stone as you follow Vernon through the crevice.

It's easier to see in the dark with Sekhmet present, your eyes adjusting easily to accommodate for the lack of light. Her presence flares brighter the moment you cross the threshold, her power a hot coal in your chest as she directs you toward a long corridor with a carved-lion headed sentinel.

"Left," you murmur to Vernon, voice echoing. "Then down the ramp. She said the main hall is lit."

Vernon listens without question. He hand brushes the small of your back for half a second as you step into a large room, steadying you before he moves ahead. He takes the left and leads you down a corridor, both of you silent as you creep along.

Gold light greets you as you step into the main hall suddenly. Golden-orage flames flicker in shallow stone bowls set into the walls, casting dancing light across the walls. The carvings in the wall are pristine here, untouched by the desert wind and protected by the cliffs. You marvel at the reliefs: Maahes in his lion form, devouring enemies, his mane wreathed in solar fire; processions of priests carrying offerings of meat and wine; scenes of the lion god standing behind Sekhmet, both of them pathed in blood.

My deepest pride, the goddess growls. My biggest regret.

The hall is entirely empty. Your boots echo on the flagstones as you step deeper into the main hall. It's warmer, the brazier's heat making sweat bead along your hairline. Vernon stays close, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours and sending sparks through your spine.

"Voss, was here," Vernon mutters. "Brazier's don't light themselves. But where did they go?"

Deeper, Sekhmet urges. Into the heart.

The two of you move together down a wide ramp that spirals gently into the earth. The walls grow closer, the carvings showing lions with open jaws, flames pouring from their mouths, scenes of Apophis writhing beneath Maahes's claws. Your pulse quickens as you walk, feeling Sekhmet's energy pulse in time with yours.

The ramp ends in a grand antechamber. More braziers burn here, their light reflecting off polished obsidian inlays that make the walls look like liquid night. The floor is inlaid with a massive mosaic of a lion devouring a serpent. The air feels heavier, charged, as if the temple itself is holding its breath.

Great stone lion statues on pillars bellow into the night, their faces twisted in anger. You pull up short when you look at them, something in your gut twisting like when you'd seen the falcons outside of Montu's temple. You get the sense of something that ripples down Sekhmet's spine like an angry cat-

Stone grinds. You look up to see the stone lions tearing themselves from the columns, all four of them crashing down to the ground. Dust flies as you and Vernon step back. They're twice the size of natural lions, their bodies made of living basalt veined with glowing red lines of fire. Their eyes burn red as they shake the dust from their shoulders, teeth grinding like rock as they prowl toward you.

"Shit," Vernon swears.

Power floods your veins as Sekhmet surges forward. Your hands burn and you don't even think - you just reach outward with both of your hands, twin khopesh blades manifesting in your grip, their bronze edges blazing crimson. The weapons feel perfectly balanced, humming with Sekhmet's wrath as the lions charge.

Vernon's spear appears in his hands with a crack of thunder, the same weapon you'd seen in Montu's temple crackling with lightning. He surges forward to meet the first lion head on as you challenge another, spinning as one khopesh slashes upward in a blazing arch. The blade cuts through the living stone like it's clay, shearing off a chunk of the lion's shoulder in a spray of sparks and rock.

The guardian roars in rage, swinging a massive paw at your head. You duck under it and drive the second blade into the creature's flank, gritting your teeth as Sekhmet roars inside of you. Flame explodes outward, cracking the basalt apart from the inside, causing the lion to shatter and collapse into rubble.

Vernon is a living storm beside you, shadow-stepping through darkness to reappear behind another lion and drive his spear through its spine. Lightning erupts along the shaft, spiderwebbing across the stone body in brilliant white cracks. The stone lion convulses and fractures, shattering the same way yours had moments before.

The two of you fall into a sync without words as the last two guardians descend, becoming flame and storm. You blast one of the lions with fire, knocking it back before it can get to Vernon before you challenge it head on, ducking as it swipes at you. You spin and bring down both blades on its neck, severing the stone head as Sekhmet's strength burns through you, hot and liquid.

Vernon plants his spear into his lion's side, sending a bolt of lightning that hits the creature with an explosion that leaves your ears ringing. Dust billows thick through the antechamber as you shield yourself from stray rock and dust as Vernon's killing blow finishes. He stands a few paces away, spear dissolving into sparks, chest heaving. His eyes meet yours across the settling dust, dark, wild, and something else.

For a second the air between you crackles with more than divine power, but Sekhmet's growl cuts it short. They're gone.

You nod. "She says they're gone."

Vernon nods once, jaw tight. “Let’s make sure.”

The final corridor is shorter, narrower, lined with carvings of Maahes standing triumphant over Apophis. The braziers here burn lower, as if whatever ritual was performed has already drained them. You push through a last set of massive stone doors that stand slightly ajar, their surfaces carved with roaring lions.

The heart of the temple opens before you, a circular chamber, vast and domed, the ceiling lost in shadow high above. A single massive altar of black basalt dominates the center, its surface still stained with fresh blood and scattered with remnants of ritual. You absently press your hand to your stomach, feeling the heat of where the blade had entered you, the wound that Sekhmet had burned shut.

I am here, she murmurs.

Vernon touches your arm, drawing your attention. His eyes are dark, a storm sparking behind them. "You're not alone." He pauses and rolls his eyes. "Set says you have nothing to fear."

Sekhmet gives a deliberate hmph but you smile, thankful for their presence - even the God of Chaos.

The chamber is empty like Sekhmet said. No Voss. No Nadia-Montu. No Dr. el-Masri or remaining security. Only the echo of your footsteps and the faint crackle of dying flames. The last of Sekhmet's fire fades beneath your skin as you walk through the chamber, the twin blades vanishing from your hands.

"Gone like she said."

You nod, staring at the bloodstained altar. The scent of smoke and iron is thick. You sink down onto the edge of the altar, legs suddenly heavy. Vernon hesitates only a moment before sitting beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch. The stone is warm from the braziers. The chamber feels strangely peaceful after the violence, and for a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Vernon’s voice is low when he finally breaks the silence. “I liked the blades."

You let out a shaky breath, staring at your hands. The tattoos on your arms have faded back to dull red, but you can still feel the fire. “I think Sekhmet did most of the work. Felt like I knew exactly what to do, though."

He huffs a quiet laugh, leaning back on his hands. “Set’s the same. Sometimes it feels like I’m just along for the ride. Other times it feels like we're working together."

The silence stretches again. Vernon settles back and his shoulder presses a little firmer against yours. You glance at him but he isn't watching you, his gaze focused on the dim fire of the chambers. You can feel the warmth of him beside you, the steady rhythm of his breathing. He shifts slightly, his boot scraping against the stone floor.

“I keep thinking about it,” he says, breaking the silence as he stares. “Leaving you in that corridor. I was pissed, and I told myself you were a grown woman who could make her own choices, but I knew better. I knew Voss was planning something bad. I should’ve dragged you out of there kicking and screaming if I had to. I shouldn’t have walked away.”

The words hang in the air between you. You stare at him, surprised at the admission. His jaw is tight, the line of it sharp in the low light, and his hands rest on his knees, fingers flexing once like he’s fighting the urge to clench them into fists. He looks exhausted and it twists something in your chest.

You turn toward him, studying the side of his face. The firelight catches on the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the way his dark eyes reflect the dying embers like distant lightning. He’s always worn that smug, untouchable mask so well, but right now it’s cracked, and you can see the other version of him beneath it, the one who sat guard outside your tent and who kept you grounded in the medical tent after that first night of slaughter.

"It isn't your fault, Vernon." You tentatively reach out, resting your hand on his forearm. The skin there is warm, the ink slightly raised under your fingertips. “I was angry. Stubborn. I didn’t want to listen because I thought you were coddling me and I've spent most of my life chasing after my mom's dream. I made the choice to go deeper. You tried to stop me. Multiple times. I’m the one who ignored every warning.”

He doesn’t pull away from your touch, but his shoulders tense. “Doesn’t change the fact that I left you there to bleed out on an altar. I should have made you listen."

The guilt is eating at him, you realize. It’s weighing on him like the collapsed temple itself, pressing down on his shoulders. You can see it in the tight set of his mouth, the way his free hand flexes against his thigh. This isn’t the smug Vernon who called you Stacks and made you see red. This is someone who’s been carrying too much for too long - Set's chaos, his own secrets, and guilt that you can't even begin to understand.

You squeeze his arm gently, thumb brushing over one of the binding wards. “Hey. Look at me.” He does, reluctantly, dark eyes meeting yours. In the dim light they look almost black. "When have I ever done what you asked?"

He scoffs a little. "I guess."

"You came back. That means a lot to me."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

“Don’t be nice to me just because you understand me better now.” His voice is rough, edged with that familiar tone when he'd been an ass all those years, but there's a vulnerability you feel now that you know how to look for it. "You spent years hating me and you had every right to. You don't owe me comfort now just because you know I'm carrying Set."

You hold his gaze, refusing to look away. “I’m not being nice because I feel sorry for you. I’m saying it because it’s true. And so what if I regret how I treated you. I was wrong. Though, to be fair, I think you were pushing my buttons on purpose."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I was."

You snort. "Why?"

He looks at you for a long moment, the firelight dancing in his eyes. "Liked your fire, and when you were mad at me, it made me feel seen. At least you not liking me was honest."

"I didn't hate you. I just… really didn't like you."

He smirks. “I’ve always been impressed by you, you know. You're incredibly smart and your commitment to the right thing reminds me of myself before Set. I always liked that about you."

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of how close he is, the warmth of his body, the way his fingers linger on yours, the dark intensity in his eyes as they drop to your mouth for a heartbeat before returning to yours.

Sekhmet growls but you ignore her, your heart pounding in your chest as you stare at him. "I thought you thought I was naive and stupid."

"Stacks, I think the fucking world of you."

"Really?"

"Mhm." His eyes drop down to your mouth again. "Can I be honest?"

Your heart thuds. "Yes."

"I really want to fucking kiss you right now."

You suck in a sharp breath, your hand on his arm tightening a fraction. Licking your lips, you murmur, "I'm not going to stop you."

Vernon doesn't hesitate. He presses forward, his mouth meeting yours in a kiss that starts slow but quickly deepens, hungry and desperate, like he’s been holding back for far longer than you realized. His lips are warm, slightly chapped from the desert, and they move against yours with a certainty that makes your head spin. One hand reaches up to rest on your cheek, the other sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair as he pulls you closer.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, hands fisting in his torn shirt, the fabric bunching under your fingers. The taste of him - salt and something static - floods your senses. Heat blooms low in your belly, and when his tongue brushes yours and you part your lips for him, he groans low in his throat, the kisses turning deeper.

Immediately you think of the dream as you cling to him, the room spinning. Sekhmet is nowhere to be found as you press into him, his hands tangling in your hair, tongue sweeping against yours. You make a small sound and he breaks the kiss, panting.

“Fuck, Stacks,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Tell me to stop and I will. Right now.”

Instead, you pull him back down, kissing him harder, deeper, tongues sliding together in a messy, desperate tangle. He groans into your mouth, the sound low, vibrating through your chest. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your waist hard enough to bruise, then lower, palming your ass as he hauls you fully into his lap on the edge of the altar. The stone is still warm from the braziers, but nothing compared to the heat of his body pressing against yours.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. He bites your bottom lip and you whine while his tongue darts out to soothe the sting with his tongue. “Watching you glare at me across every dig, every conference, pretending I didn’t want to shove you against the nearest wall and kiss the fucking shit out of you."

Your laugh is breathless, turning into a moan when he rolls his hips up, letting you feel exactly how hard he already is. “You were such an asshole on purpose.”

"Yeah. You're hot when you're mad. And you not liking me was something."

He kisses you again, slower this time, savoring, like he’s memorizing the taste of you. His hands are greedy, sliding under your shirt, the callouses on his fingers scraping across your hips before skimming up your ribs to cup your chest through your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble tight.

"Oh," you breathe.

"Yeah?" He smirks, mouth sucking greedily along your jaw. "Been driving me insane for years."

Vernon leans up to peel your shirt off, his eyes hungry as he takes in the sight of you. The scar on your stomach glows faintly red in the low light, and he ducks down to press open-mouthed kisses along the ridged line, tongue tracing every inch.

“Mine,” he murmurs against your skin, the word possessive and rough. "Mine to protect, mine to touch."

He lays you back on the wide basalt altar, the stone warm against your bare back. His mouth follows, worshipping every inch of skin he uncovers. He kisses the hollow of your throat, the curve of your collarbone, the sensitive underside of your breasts. His hands snap the claps in the back and peel the fabric off you, the scrape of it against your skin making you shiver. When he finally closes his mouth over one nipple, sucking hard while his hand palms the other, you cry out, back arching off the stone.

"Fuck," you hiss.

He hums, the vibration shooting straight between your legs. “That’s it. Let me hear you. Finally using that crass language I adore.”

He takes his time, mouth and hands mapping your skin. Your mind goes blank, the feeling of his mouth and hands on you turning you to static. Heat blooms where he kisses, your body feeling the electricity underneath his skin as he plants kisses down your stomach.

A few days ago, you'd never imagine Vernon touching like this. Now that he is, you can't imagine him not touching you. You never want him to stop, never want the heat of his palms to leave your ass or the wet press of his mouth to stray too far. For too long have you watched him, irritated but intrigued, and now that you've tasted him, you don't want to stop.

When Vernon finally moves lower, hooking his fingers in your waistband and dragging your pants and underwear down in one smooth motion, he groans at the sight of you bare and glistening for him.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “So wet already. All for me?”

You nod, breathless. His hands are gentle as he spreads your thighs wide, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thighs while he settles between them. He presses open-mouth kisses down your thighs and you suck in a sharp breath when you feel the heat of his breath on your wet cunt, a thrill going through you.

The first slow, broad lick of his tongue from your entrance to your clit makes your hips jerk and a broken moan tear from your throat. Your hands shoot down to thread in the strands of his hair, twisting in the longer strands near the nape of his neck, nails scrapping on the shorter sides.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he growls, the words vibrating against your folds. “Gonna eat this pretty pussy until you’re shaking.”

The words knock the wind out of you as he presses his mouth to you, slow and messy. His tongue works you open in long strokes, circling your swollen clit before sucking it gently between his lips. Your hips twitch and your eyes squeeze shut as you arch, the feeling so good you can't do anything except squirm in his hold.

Two thick fingers slide inside you without warning, curling just right, the wet sound of him fucking them into you echoing in the temple chamber. He doesn't rush - just sucks messily at you, letting you roll your hips in broken, little twitches into his mouth.

"Fuck," you gasp, laughing as your head presses back into the stone. "Feels so good."

He groans against you. "That's it, Stacks, use me."

You do, hips rolling as he stretches you open while his tongue flicks relentlessly over your clit. The first orgasm crashes over you hard and sudden, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as your walls clamp down around his fingers. He doesn’t stop, grinning as he licks you through it, slow and messy until you're oversensitive and whimpering.

Vernon finally pulls back, lips and chin shining, eyes dark with stormclouds. "You're addicting."

Before you can catch your breath, he’s kissing you again, deep and wet with the taste of you. His fingers never leave you, thrusting slow and deep while his thumb circles your swollen clit. You moan into his mouth, hands fisting in his hair as another orgasm builds fast and overwhelming.

“Come on,” he murmurs against your lips. “Give me another. Want to feel you come on my fingers."

You do, clenching tight around his fingers as you come with a choked cry. You squeeze your eyes shut, breath coming out in choked sounds, colors blooming behind your lids. He swallows every sound you make, kissing you through it until you're boneless and panting. Only then does he pull away, bringing his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean before he kisses you again.

"Need you," he murmurs, the slide of his mouth warm against yours. "Do you want-"

"Yes," you gasp, sucking his tongue into your mouth greedily. He whimpers and you dig your nails into him, pulling at his shirt. "Please."

You help him tear his shirt off as he shoves his pants down, his heavy cock springing free. It's thick and glistening, making your stomach flip because of course the asshole tombraider has a nice cock.

Vernon settles between your thighs, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance. He grins when you squirm beneath him, lifting your hips in an attempt to push him in. Instead, he rolls his hips lazily against you, smearing your arousal across your pussy as he teases you, laughing while he peppers your face in kisses.

"Desperate," he notes.

"Asshole."

"I like what it gets out of you."

Before you can retort, he pushes in slowly, inch by thick inch, splitting you open with a burn that feels better than Sekhmet's fire. When he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, both of you groan. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer as he drops his forehead to yours, kissing you sweeter than the moment calls for.

"Fuck," he whispers. "You feel so good. Made for me."

He starts to move then, his lips dipping with slow, deep rolls that drag against you. The pace is deliberate, his cock filling you completely with every thrust. Your nails dig into his back, keeping him close as his thrusts punch the air from your lungs.

But you want more of him.

With a surge of Sekhmet's strength, you flip him suddenly, pinning him down on the stone beneath you. His brows raise, then darken as you press your hands to his chest, keeping him flat as you roll your hips and grin.

"My turn," you whisper.

The new angle makes you both moan, the feeling deeper and fuller now. You start to ride him, slow and grinding at first, then faster, hips rolling as you chase your pleasure. Vernon’s hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise, eyes locked on where you’re joined, watching his cock disappear inside you with every bounce.

"Fuck," he groans. “Riding me so pretty. Take what you need, baby.”

The new name makes you whine. You roll your hips faster, chasing the warm knot in your belly, ignoring the burn in your thighs as you tip your head back, nails digging into his sweaty chest. He sits up suddenly, one arm wrapping around your back to hold you close while the other hand slides between you to rub tight circles over your clit.

“Come on,” he growls against your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “One more. Come on my cock.”

You nod, clinging to him as the orgasm rips through you, sharp and blinding. You cry out, walls clenching around him as you come hard. He growls, keeping you moving until he spills after you, burying his face in your neck.

Vernon falls backward and you collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slick and trembling. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as the braziers flicker lower around you. One hand splays across your lower back while the other strokes slow, soothing lines up and down your spine.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The only sounds are your mingled breaths, the soft crackle of the last embers, and the distant sigh of wind moving through the wadi outside the temple. For the first time since Sekhmet burned her way into your veins, the fire inside you feels quiet and content.

Vernon presses a lazy kiss to your temple, his voice rough and low against your hair. “We should stay here tonight. It’s safer than trying to drive out in the dark with Voss and Montu somewhere ahead. We can rest, regroup.”

You nod against his chest, too boneless to argue. “Yeah. Supplies are still in the jeep, though. Water. Food. Blankets.”

“Just a bit longer,” he murmurs, tilting your chin up so he can kiss you again, slow and deep. “I mean it, Stacks. You’re mine to protect now. Not just because of the gods riding us. Because it’s you. I’m not walking away again."

You lean in and kiss him once more before resting your head on his chest. "I know."

Sekhmet stirs inside you, her presence a low, steady burn rather than the usual sharp flare of irritation. She watches the moment with the wary gaze of an old lioness.

He is determined, she notes warily. I think he might burn the world to keep you safe. Perhaps it is not a bad thing. Chaos seems to like you. Beware the love of a God.

And what about you? You ask her.

Beware of me too, child. I burn away the unworthy.

-

Dawn is pomegranate pink when you slip out of the temple's stone fissure, the cool morning air of Wadi al-Hitan not yet burning. You move in easy silence now, shoulders brushing, hands finding each other without thought as you pass Vernon the last of the scavenged supplies. The sky above shifts from pink to rose, to blue, the faint mineral bite of ancient rock still in the air.

You study a map spread out on the hood of the jeep, a pen in your hand as you keep the wind from lifting the paper edges off the metal of the car. Vernon comes up behind you, his arms sliding around your waist without hesitation, chin resting on your shoulder. The casual affection makes something warm bloom inside of you, and you lean back into him, tilting your head to the side so he can see better.

"Find the way?" He asks.

"Yeah. Sekhmet's version of directions isn't as simple as looking at a map." She growls and you grin. "But I think I've got it figured out."

"Good."

"You drove yesterday. I'll drive today."

He hums in agreement, the sound low and pleased, and gives your waist a gentle squeeze before stepping back. “Good. Means I get to watch you instead of the road.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth is genuine. “Flirt.”

"Get used to it, Stacks."

The drive out of the wadi is smoother than the journey in, the narrow track widening as you leave the canyons behind. Vernon rides shotgun, one arm draped along the back of your seat, fingers occasionally playing with the ends of your hair or tracing idle patterns on your shoulder. Every touch feels easy and open, and you catch yourself glancing over at him more than once, catching the soft curve of his smile when he catches you looking.

When the road straightens and you reach over to rest your hand on his thigh, he covers it with his own without hesitation, thumb stroking slow circles against your knuckles.

"This is nice," he says, fingers tightening on yours. "I spent a long time convincing myself the only way to keep you looking at me was to make you angry. Stupid, in hindsight.” He lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to the back of yours. “I like this better. A lot better.”

"You're going to keep doing it though, aren't you?"

"Sure am."

Two hours slip by faster than you expect. The landscape changes subtly as you draw closer to the suspected location of Apophis’s resting place, rockier, more fractured, the cliffs giving way to wide, barren plains dotted with strange, wind-sculpted formations that look almost like broken bones. The sky remains clear and mercilessly blue, but the air feels heavier, charged with something unnatural.

Then you see it.

Far ahead on the horizon, a wall of darkness is building, the storm clouds thick and alive. Black and bruised-purple thunderheads boil upward, swirling as lightning flickers inside of them in violent, blood-red forks rather than the usual white. Even from this distance, you can see the sand being whipped into violent spirals beneath the storm.

Vernon sits up straighter, his hand tightening on yours. "The serpent."

His voice startles you and you glances sideways at him, the ancient language rolling off of his tongue as Set speaks through him for a moment. Sekhmet stirs sharply in your mind in response, giving a low warning growl.

The storm grows larger as you drive toward it, the sky darkening rapidly. Wind buffets the jeep, sand stinging against the windshield like tiny needles. Vernon’s jaw clenches, tattoos beginning to glow faintly blue along his forearms as Set rises to meet the threat.

“Pull over for a second,” he says.

You ease the jeep to a stop and Vernon closes his eyes, breathing slow and deep. You feel the shift in the air immediately, your hair standing up on your arms as the energy crackles in the car. The wind around the jeep whips up for a second before it dies down, Set's calming the unnatural storm ahead. Ahead, the thunderheads still rumble, but the lightning lessens and dims to sullen flashes.

Vernon exhales sharply, opening his eyes. Sweat beads on his forehead. “That is all I can do from here. Set is fighting the serpent’s influence, but it is like trying to push back the tide. We need to get closer.”

You nod and put the jeep back in gear, pushing forward through the unnaturally calmed corridor Vernon has carved. The storm still rages ahead, but the path to the temple remains passable.

The site appears suddenly as you crest a low rise, the chaos spread out across the barren plain like a battlefield. Abandoned vehicles sit at crooked angles, doors flung open, some with hoods still smoking. Tents lie half-collapsed or shredded by wind, canvas flapping wildly. Equipment is scattered everywhere, crates overturned and tools spilled.

Dark stains mar the ground in several places, blood both dry and still fresh. The storm’s edge looms directly over the area, thunder cracking like whip strikes, red lightning illuminating the destruction in violent flashes.

“No bodies,” Vernon mutters, scanning the wreckage. “Either they ran or Voss forced them deeper.”

You kill the engine a safe distance away, heart pounding. Sekhmet’s fire surges hotter in your veins, ready. Vernon’s hand finds yours one last time, squeezing tight before you both step out into the howling wind.

The storm presses against the invisible barrier Set has created, but it holds. You feel the vibration of the storm against your small pocket of air, stepping close to Vernon as you both walk in the sand, feet sinking in step by step.

Up ahead, the entrance to the temple of Apophis yawns open, waiting and framed by cabins of coiling serpents. A ripple of anger goes through you as Sekhmet growls, and you feel the heat in your hands, ready to summon fire and weapons if necessary.

Together, you approach the temple, Vernon gritting his teeth with the force of keeping the storm at bay. You touch his wrist and he steadies a little, his focus sharpening as you pause at the temple's entrance, stone serpents hissing down at you.

"Together?" You ask.

"Together," he confirms.

The darkness of the temple swallows you whole and the wind cuts off like a door slamming shut. The air inside of the temple is thick and stale and unnaturally warm, pressing against you with the metallic tang of blood. You don't let it deter you, your footsteps silent as you and Vernon navigate the dark, guided by the eyes of Sekhmet and Set.

Prepare, Sekhmet growls.

Your palms heat as the khopesh blades manifest, burning crimson in your grip. Vernon must have the same instinct, his spear crackling blue in his hand as the air around him pops. Together, you move down the narrow corridor, the walls covered in images of coiling serpents, their eyes inlaid with polished obsidian.

Sekhmet’s presence surges hotter in your veins, a low, constant growl of warning. Deeper. They are close. The serpent stirs.

Vernon's jaw is tight as you walk. His free hand brushes yours for half a second, a silent promise as he surges forward, the passage widening into a series of antechambers. Braziers burn low and erratic here, casting dancing shadows that make the carved reliefs seem alive. You scan scenes of Apophis swallowing the sun, of chaos devouring order, of the world unraveling into endless night - but its the floor makes your stomach turn.

Blood is everywhere. Dried and fresh, dark pools and smeared streaks across the flagstones. Bodies like where they fell - laborers, students, security personnel. Throats are slit, chests are opened in ritual patterns, some with eyes open, others close. The sacrifices number in the dozens, violent and grotesque.

Sekhmet's voice growls through yours, "I drink what spills. We will end this now."

Ahead, the corridor opens into the main chamber. It's a vast, cavernous space carved deep into the living rock, its ceiling lost in shadow high above. A single colossal altar of black basalt dominates the center, its surface slick with fresh blood. Braziers ring the room in a perfect circle, flames roaring unnaturally high and red. In the middle of it all stands Voss, arms raised, chanting in a voice that is no longer entirely his own.

Nadia stands to his right, still possessed by Montu, her body thrumming with solar power. Besides her is another security team member - Tariq, you think. Maahes burns in him now, golden light leaking from the corner of his eyes and manifesting in golden armor made of light on his body.

Apophis is rising. You can feel it in the air, the serpents hiss filling the room as the ground trembles beneath your feet. Red lightning crackles across the ceiling as Voss's chant grows louder and faster, guided by Dr. al-Masri.

Nadia and Tariq turn the second you and Vernon step into the room, Nadia's smile spreading. "The Crooked Star returns."

"Ah," Tariq says. "The Eye Unbound is with him. Hello, mother."

Neither Sekhmet nor Set answer in kind. They surge forward as Nadia lunges at Vernon first, her khopesh blazing as Vernon meets her head-on, spear crackling with lightning. The God of war is fast, each crack of her blade against his spear like thunder, sending sparks flying.

You lose focus on Vernon as Tariq charges you, the might of Maahes powering him with terrifying speed. His eyes burn golden as he chops at you with a short sword. You leap to meet him, your twin khopesh blazing. The first clash of metal sparks, the impact vibrating up your arm and vibrating through your teeth. Sekhmet's strength floods you and you snarl as you press him, making Tariq stumble backward.

He disengages and feints left before striking right, and you barely parry in time. The force sends you sliding back across the blood-slick floor, feet skidding. Pain flares but you dive and roll away from another heavy swing of his sword, charging him as he recovers from the chop. Your khopesh slash across his side, carving deep wounds that sizzle flesh. He roars, Tariq's voice mixed with something ancient and furious, as he retaliates with a roaring breath of fire that makes you leap back.

Across the chamber, Vernon and Montu are locked in brutal combat. Vernon flickers in and out of shadows, spear thrusting with lethal precision while storms rage around him. Nadia counters with blinding light, fire roaring from her palms, blades and weapons manifesting and vanishing as she hammers down on him. The two gods clash in a whirlwind of lightning and fire, the chamber trembling with every blow.

"You are a whelp," Sekhmet growls through you to Tariq and he sneers. "I am the lioness. You are a cub."

He lunges, sword swinging in wide, deadly arcs. You meet each strike with your own blades, flame meeting flame in explosive bursts of light and heat that make sparks rain down around you. Maahes slams his shoulder into you, using his stolen body’s mass to drive you back against a pillar. The impact knocks the breath from your lungs, but Sekhmet roars through you. You twist, bringing one khopesh down in a vicious overhead strike that catches him across the collarbone. Golden light pours from the wound like molten metal, and he howls in pain and rage, the sound shaking dust from the ceiling above.

End him, Sekhmet roars.

You press the attack, khopesh flashing, crimson flames licking up the edge of the blades. Tariq catches you once in the side, opening a shallow cut on your ribs that makes you snarl, but you push through, kicking him back and making his arm fly wide for the smallest window of opportunity. You take it, striking with both blades and driving them home into his chest.

He staggers backward, golden light spilling from the wound. His body convulses as the god within fights to stay anchored, and you refuse to let up, summoning fire in your palms. You thrust your hands forward, a rush of white flame scorching Tariq. He screams as you grit your teeth, feeling the flame run through every part of you, your veins heating with divine power.

"We burn the unworthy," you growl, feeling Sekhmet's rage and grief as the fire pours out of you.

Tariq’s body collapses to the ground, charred and smoking as the golden light flickers out. Sekhmet's wrath is edged with sadness, but she doesn't let it overwhelm either of you as both of you pivot to where Vernon drives a spear through Nadia's stomach, his lightning exploding in a blinding flash of white that makes you shield your eyes.

Vernon is storm incarnate, the wind ripping through the chamber and buffeting you as he pins Nadia to the chamber floor. He pulls the spear out, pointing it to the ceiling as he spins it fluidly in his hands again, gathering static before he strikes down again, the crack of thunder so loud that all sound goes out for a moment, your ears ringing as you clap your hands over them.

Nadia’s body goes limp as Montu’s presence flees, leaving her body behind. You stand panting in the carnage, hands over your screaming ears as Vernon leans over her, panting. When he looks up at you, it's not Vernon looking at you, but the blazing storm of Set, seething and angry. For a moment, you're terrified you've lost Vernon to the god, but you see his mouth twitch in a smile before turning to where Voss stands in the center of the room.

Voss's eyes burn gold, his pupils narrowed to serpentine slits. Black scales ripple across his skin in slow, oily waves, spreading from his throat down his chest and arms. When he smiles, his mouth splits too wide, revealing rows of needle-sharp fangs that glint in the dying brazier light. The air around him thickens, heavy with static.

“You dare interrupt the end of all things?” The voice that comes out of Voss is layered with something vast and ancient. "The Crooked Star and the Eye Unbound. How fitting. I will swallow you both before I swallow the world.”

Vernon’s grip tightens on his spear, lightning crackling louder along the shaft. "I am the chaos within the order of the world, I am the protector of disorder, I am Set, the Crooked Star, and I will devour you whole, snake."

You feel Sekhmet surge forward in your veins, her wrath a white-hot flame that sharpens every sense. Your twin khopesh blaze brighter, crimson fire licking up the blades until they glow like molten metal. The scar on your stomach burns in answer.

"I am with you," you growl.

You and Vernon move as one.

Apophis answers in kind, lunging with impossible speed, his black-scaled hands elongating into claws. The air tears as he slashes toward you. You spin left, khopesh flashing in a wide arc that meets his claws in a shower of spitting flame. The impact jars your arms, but Sekhmet’s strength holds you firm. Vernon shadow-steps right, appearing behind Apophis and driving his spear toward the serpent’s spine.

Apophis twists mid-motion, tail-like darkness whipping out to slam Vernon back. The impact sends him skidding across the blood-slick floor, but he rolls to his feet and immediately summons a violent gust of wind that hurls debris and sand into the serpent god’s face.

Your khopesh slash downward in twin blazing arcs as you seize the advantage, and one catches Apophis across the shoulder, carving a deep, smoking gash that leaks black ichor. The other bites into his side and Sehmet's fire pours into his wounds, burning away shadow and scale.

Apophis roars a sound like the world cracking open and backhands you with a clawed fists. Pain explodes across your ribs as you fly backward, slamming into a pillar hard enough that it cracks and collapses behind you.

Vernon is there in a second, shadow-stepping to pull you up roughly while thrusting his spear with the other hand. Lightning chains from the tip, striking Apophis square in the chest. The serpent god convulses, black smoke rising from the point of the impact, but he laughs through the pain, the sound wet and terrible.

"You think you can contain me?"

Apophis spreads his arms, and the chamber erupts. Shadowy serpents burst from the floor, coiling and striking with venomous speed. One lunges for you and you spin a khopesh, severing its head easily.

Together, you and Vernon fall into a perfect tandem, taking on the primordial deity of chaos. Vernon forces openings, blasting Apophis back with air and shadow stepping to draw his attention while you strike from the flank, your blades carving deal, burning wounds that Sekmhmet's fire refuses to let close.

When Apophis turns on you with a barrage of shadow claws, Vernon appears in a flicker of darkness, spear thrusting into the serpent’s side and unleashing a point-blank lightning strike that lights the entire chamber white-blue.

Apophis bellows, the sound ear-splitting. Black ichor sprays across the floor where your blades and Vernon’s spear find purchase again and again. You feel the serpent weakening, his movements growing slightly slower, the golden glow in Voss’s eyes flickering like a dying bulb.

With a roar that rattles your bones, Apophis slams both hands into the ground. The stone floor erupts in a wave of writhing shadow serpents that surge toward you like a living tide. You slash desperately, flame cutting through them in wide arcs, but there are too many. One coils around your ankle and yanks you off your feet.

Vernon’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Stacks!”

He shadow-steps through the writhing mass, spear spinning in a blazing circle of lightning that clears a path. He reaches you, grabbing your arm and hauling you upright just as Apophis lunges again, claws aimed for your throat.

Vernon drops low, sweeping his spear in a wide horizontal arc that catches Apophis across the knees, lightning exploding outward and buckling the serpent’s legs while you leap, both khopesh raised high. Sekhmet's full wrath surges through you in a single, blinding pulse of flame as you bring the blades down, a roar ripping from your throat.

The twin khopesh strike Apophis’s shoulders in perfect unison just as Vernon sends another lightning strike through the god. Divine flame and lightning meet in the middle, and for a moment, there's no sound. Then, Apophis roars, black scales shattering as fractured light spills out of him. His body convulses violently, and for an endless moment, the three of you are locked together.

Apophis finally breaks.

The serpent’s essence shatters outward in a violent burst of black smoke and golden shards that dissolve into nothing before they hit the ground. Voss’s body goes limp, collapsing to the bloodstained floor like a puppet with its strings cut. The golden glow fades from his eyes, leaving only the dull, empty stare of a man who invited a god in and paid the ultimate price.

You and Vernon collapse with him, chests heaving, weapons still glowing faintly in your hands. Sweat, blood, and ichor streak your skin. The braziers flicker lower, casting long shadows across the carnage.

Vernon’s spear dissolves into sparks. He rolls toward you, breathing hard, and reaches out. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight despite the mess covering both of you. You squeeze back, Sekhmet’s fire cooling to a gentle warmth in your veins.

The silence is deafening, only the soft pop of the last dying braziers and the distant sigh of wind through the wadi remain. Blood, ichor, and dust coat everything. Your body feels heavy, every muscle trembling with exhaustion, but Sekhmet’s fire still hums gently beneath your skin, the lioness satisfied.

Panting, you stare up at the ceiling. Your heart is still racing, adrenaline and divine power crashing through your veins in fading waves. The scar on your stomach pulses warmly, a reminder of how close you came to dying on a similar altar not so long ago.

You almost died on that altar in Montu’s temple. You watched people slaughtered for a madman’s ambition. You carried a goddess of vengeance inside you and learned how to wield her fire without losing yourself. And Vernon - Vernon, who you once hated on sight - fought beside you every step of the way.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, unexpected and hot. Not from sadness, but from the sheer overwhelming relief that you are still here. That he is still here. And that there are gods that walk in the world, that beneath the simmering history of Egypt, at the root of it all, your mother was right. There is a magical thread that makes the impossible possible - you'd just followed it to near the end of the world.

A shaky laugh bubbles up from your chest, half-hysterical, half-relieved. You turn your head to look at Vernon. He's already watching you, chest rising and falling rapidly, dust and blood streaking his face. His hair is matted with sweat, a cut on his cheek bleeding sluggishly. But his eyes are soft now, raw with something that looks a lot like awe.

“You’re insane,” he rasps, voice hoarse from shouting over the storm. A tired, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “We just killed a primordial serpent god and you’re laughing.”

"She was right," you pant. "My mom was right."

"Yeah. She was."

He shifts closer, pulling you against his side despite the mess covering both of you. His arm wraps around your shoulders, holding you tight as you turn into a combination of laughing and crying. Sekhmet is quiet inside you for once, her presence a warm, approving glow rather than the usual sharp growl.

You stay like that for a long time, tangled together on the floor of the ancient temple, bodies aching and hearts still racing. Vernon’s fingers thread through your hair, gentle despite the calluses.

"I think," he says eventually. "I would like to go on vacation for a while."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"What about that resort town we passed on the way here?" He asks.

You laugh. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, Stacks. I'm fucking tired."

"Alright. Yeah. A vacation." You pause. "Wait."

He looks down at you, concerned. "What?"

"I think I'm out of PTO soon."

He groans. "Stacks," he grumbles, mouth pressing to yours. "Fuck your PTO."

-

The sun is warm on your skin - not the punishing heat of the desert, but the salted kiss of the beach that makes everything feel soft like the sand beneath your feet. Marsa Alam stretches out in lazy blues and golds, the waves lapping against the white sand while the palm trees sway in the breeze and you curl against Vernon's side in the shaded cabana you claimed this morning.

Vernon's arm is draped around your waist, the heat of his skin slick with sweat. It doesn't bother you, though. You just like being pressed up against him, the familiar hum of Set's lightning just under the surface of Vernon's skin. The scar on your stomach has faded to a faint silver line that still glows faintly when Sekhmet stirs, but today she's quiet. Vernon’s fingers trace idle patterns over the mark through the thin fabric of your cover-up, a habit he has developed that makes your chest tighten with warmth every time.

He looks relaxed in a way you have never seen before, dirty blonde hair tousled by the wind, sunglasses pushed up into it, a half-empty cocktail sweating in his free hand. The tattoos on his forearms have settled into something less volatile now that the storm inside of him is more checked considering Set has learned to behave on most days.

“Another one?” Vernon asks, lifting his glass toward yours in a lazy toast.

You clink your glass against his, savoring the taste of the bright, citrusy drink. “Only if you promise not to steal the little umbrella again.”

“No promises, Stacks. I like how it looks in your hair.”

Annoying, Sekhmet sighs. Good thing he fights well and looks at you like you are the only sun worth rising for. Perhaps I do not entirely hate him.

You smile against Vernon's shoulder and murmur the compliment to him. He chuckles and brushes his lips against your ear to murmur, "Tell her I'm growing on her. Like mold."

Sekhmet huffs, but you feel the faintest flicker of amusement from her like a lioness who has decided the annoying jackal is tolerable after all. It makes you grin, glad that she no longer fights you about him every step of the way.

The two of you lean back, tangled up on the cabana as he runs his fingers through your hair, stealing sips of your drink. You watch as two guests stroll by their voices catching your attention as they laugh.

"… swear it's true!" The guy says to the girl. "Some guy in Cairo is claiming he’s the actual Anubis. Like, full-on jackal-headed visions, guiding lost souls or whatever. People are calling it the new cult of the dead. Wild, right?”

His companion laughs, covering her mouth. "What a lunatic."

You and Vernon both go still.

Your eyes meet over the rims of your glasses. Vernon’s grin spreads slow and wicked, the same crooked smile that used to infuriate you and now makes heat pool low in your belly. “Anubis, huh?”

You feel Sekhmet stir with interest. The Jackal has always been a meddler. But a worthy one.

You set your glass down, already reaching for Vernon’s hand. “We were getting bored anyway. Three weeks of peace is plenty.”

He laughs, low and delighted, and pulls you up with him. Sand clings to your legs as you both stand, the sea breeze tugging at your clothes. The resort stretches behind you in perfect, sun-drenched luxury, but the pull of the red sands is stronger now, older and deeper, calling you back to the desert.

Vernon tugs you close, one hand sliding to the small of your back as he kisses you slow and sweet, tasting of rum and mango. "Ready, Stacks?"

"I am, Crooked Star."

ORANTE PARTIES ARE PERHAPS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE RESPONSIBILITY AS A PRINCESS.

The castle's grand ballroom has been transformed into a glittering display of excess, the crystal chandeliers reflecting torchlight and dappled shadows across polished marble floors, the heavy velvet drapery covering the walls in hues of crimson and midnight blue - all of it tailored to make the inside of the room feel like something from another world.

You hate every inch of it. You hate the weight of your gown and its scratchy material, you hate how you can feel the bone stitching of the corset digging into your ribs, you hate the brittle laughter and the clink of crystal goblets, the venomous whispers behind delicate gossamer fans. Most of all, you hate the way every eye in the room seems to track your every movement, measuring you, judging you, waiting for the perfect princess to make a single mistake so they can talk about it with practiced smiles.

A bard stands at the center of the hall, his fingers dancing over the strings of a lute as he sings a soulful ballad of lovers lost in the heat of one another, of stolen touches and a kind of passion you'll never understand. You wonder what it might be like to experience something like that, to be touched by someone who wants you so badly they risk everything, to have hands on your skin that aren't bound by protocol and propriety. To do something dangerous and sinful, to have someone hold you the way those lovers in the song held each other, with urgency and desire instead of duty.

You'll never be that, of course. You are forever bound to this kingdom where the entire world is your stage, where you must remain untouched and controlled, and you're constantly expected to perform.

You're not the only one performing tonight, of course. You're halfway through a painfully boring conversation with the Lord of Coin regarding taxes when a burst of laughter cuts through the murmur of the party. Your gaze drifts against your will toward the small crowd forming near the arched windows, and though you can't see the man at the center of their attention, you know he's there.

The court jester's voice drifts toward you, mischief wrapped in pretty velvet clothes and a silly hat. You'd seen him earlier tonight, dressed in his best midnight blue velvet doublet and matching pants, little crystals stitchy to the fabric to make it look like he's lost in a midnight sky. His eyes had been filled with particularly vicious mischief when they'd landed on you, but your father had whisked you away to greet the Lady of Harvest before the fiend could slink your way.

Jeonghan is a fiend. You are perhaps the only person at court who thinks behind the practiced smiles, card tricks and juggling that there's something far more dangerous, but you've never been able to convince anyone of it. And why should anyone agree with you? Jeonghan is favored among the court for his wit, rhymes and tricks, thrilling the men and charming the women as he slides through each party like smoke, taking the shape of whatever his audience desires most.

A fresh wave of laughter erupts from his audience, brighter and more genuine than anything else you’ve heard tonight. It makes your skin itch and you turn away from the crowd, focusing back on the conversation at hand and determined not to let Jeonghan ruin your night like he does at most parties, determined to vex you and make you feel affronted and flushed and-

No. 

You shove him from your mind as the conversation drags on while you sip spiced wine from your glass. As the Lord of Coin talks, you wonder what it would be like to leave this room. To go get somewhere lost in the city below. To fall into the bed of someone who would touch you like the lovers in the bard’s song, someone who smells like sandalwood and smoke and whose smile is sharp and familiar.

For now, you stay put and keep your eyes on the lord in front of you, ignoring the growing laughter coming from Jeonghan's corner. You hate that he enthralls them so - hate that even though you’re suspicious of him, he charms you in his own way, worming into your thoughts on lonely days, leading your mind astray to wonder how it is he does those tricks of his.

Your father appears suddenly, the Lord of Coin fumbling over whatever he was saying about inflation as the king puts a hand on your shoulder, grinning jovially. "Lord Hastings, forgive me, but I'm here to steal my daughter and spoil her with the fun part of the night!"

"Of course, Your Majesty!" Lord Hasting bows. "Thank you for the conversation, Your Highness."

"The gratitude is all mine, Lord Hastings," you nod, letting your father spin you away as dread knots in your stomach.

The crowd near the arched windows opens up as you approach, the members of the court bowing as you and your father approach the entertainment. Torchlight flickers on their faces, showing how flushed with delight they are as they watch the spectacle in front of them. Jeonghan stands in the middle of the, his midnight doublet fitting him perfectly as the crystals sparkle with his every movement.

Though the jester hat might look silly on anyone else, Jeonghan makes it look fashionable. His long, dark hair frames his angelic face, all sharp cheekbones and carefully sloped nose. His dark eyes find yours immediately, flashing as he grins. Your heart skips a little but you remain uneffected, staring at him as he juggles three daggers for the crowd as they ooo and ahhh at him.

You watch as the blades flash in the torchlight, each one caught cleanly while people gasp and clap. A lady nearby giggles behind her fan just as Jeonghan makes the daggers disappear into his sleeves with a quick motion. The crowd claps as he grins and bows politely, his dark eyes finding you again.

Irritation simmers, your gaze locking onto his and holding it. While everyone seems impressed, your instincts scream danger, wolf in fool’s clothing. The corner of his mouth tilts upwards as he steps toward you, the smell of his sandalwood and smoke clinging to him.

"Your Highness," he greets smoothly. "You look bored. Let me change that."

You say nothing but your father claps, his laughter booming as Jeonghan starts his performance. Cards fly from his hands in quick patterns and your attention is drawn upward as they flit through the air. He dances away from you and leans toward Lord Jeon, plucking a card from behind his ear before flicking his hand and turning it into a coin. The crowd laughs and claps as you stand there stiffly, watching as he charms his way through the nobles until he comes back toward you.

Jeonghan stops in front of you and holds out his hand, bowing slightly at the waist. The crystals on his double clink together as you stare at him, your stomach twisting when he looks up at you through his dark, silky lashes. To anyone else, the look might be reverent, but you see it for what it is - hunger. 

"For the best trick tonight, I need a volunteer," he murmurs. The crowd claps excitedly and when you glance at your father, the king urges you forward, excited. “Your Highness, would you do me the honor?”

Swallowing thickly, you place your hand in Jeonghan's. His skin is warm, sending a spark of heat up your arm as he guides you toward the center of the circle where he spins you in a twirl, the skirts of your dress flaring. The lords and ladies clap, delighted and shouting how beautiful you look, how wonderful their princess is. Jeonghan’s touch lingers a moment longer than necessary before he grins and lets go, eyes glued to you as he circles you like a wolf might its prey.

When he stops, he leans close enough that you can see the silver threading in his collar and the way his sleeves are tailored to allow free movement, probably full of pockets for all of his cards and daggers and other baubles he uses for his performances. He's close enough that the sandalwood and spice makes your lashes flutter, making you think of something dark - not at all the cheery jester he claims to be.

"Try not to look so afraid," he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear him. "The court might think you're afraid of a simple card trick."

"I'm not afraid," you snap.

"No? Then why is your pulse racing?"

You grimace. Ever the observationalist, seeing far more than anyone ever dares to give him credit for.

"Do your trick, jester," you growl.

Jeonghan grins as he produces a deck of cards from one of his sleeves, fanning them out again. "Choose any card but don't show me, love."

Ignoring the casual way he uses a pet name entirely unfit for his station, you select a card from the middle of the deck and when you flip it, you see the seven of swords. You angle it away from him, eyes darting between him and the card. His eyes watch you closely, the heat of them making you fight off a shiver.

"Show the crowd, I'll look away. Cross my heart and hope to die."

You roll your eyes when he turns his back to you. The crowd leans in as you flip the card, showcasing the front to them all. They all nod excitedly, tittering behind hands and fans until you flip the card back around, holding it close to your chest and away from Jeonghan.

"Good," he says when he turns back around, tucking the deck away in one of his sleeves. "Put the card against your palm, card face down."

You follow his instructions, holding your palm out with the card face down to conceal the seven of swords. Jeonghan reaches for your hand, his fingers warm as he presses his palm on top of yours, the card firmly kept between both of your hands. You hate the way your skin responds to the contact, the way the sudden awareness of him prickles up your arm.

"Do you trust me?" he murmurs.

"Hardly."

"Clever." He guides your pressed palms upward so that you're both holding the card between you, each of your hands pressing forward with equal force. "Good girl. Keep your hand steady."

A snarl works its way to your lips at the pet name, but before you can snap at him for the impropriety, Jeonghan shuffles closer and the crowd goes quiet. You realize how far away they seem, the sound dull like it's on the other side of a bubble. Jeonghan is close though - so close you have to tilt your chin up to look up at him, his eyes glittering as they watch you.

"You're quite good at playing a dutiful princess," he notes.

"You know nothing about me."

"Don't I?" His eyes search yours, and there's something sharp in his gaze, something that cuts through the fool's mask he wears. "I know you watch everything. I know you see more than you let on. I know you're the only person in this room who looks at me and wonders what I'm really doing here."

Your heart pounds harder, the rhythm so forceful you're certain he can see it in the pulse at your throat. He's far too close and far too observant for a mere jester. The air between your palms feels charged, almost electric, and you're acutely aware of every inch of space he occupies. You want to step back, to put distance between you and whatever game he's playing, but the crowd is watching and so is the king. So you look onward, staring at him as he smirks.

"Breathe," Jeonghan says, softer now, and there's something almost gentle in his tone that makes it worse somehow. "You're holding your breath, love."

“Stop calling me that.”

"Nervous?"

You glare. "No."

His grin widens a fraction. "Liar."

The word hangs between you, intimate and dangerous. No one else speaks to you like this. No one else would dare, but Jeonghan isn't like the others at court. He refuses to be cowed by your title and your cold shoulder, protected by the silly little performance he puts on, convincing others that he's a fool. It gives him a freedom that feels threatening, and you're the only one who seems to notice.

The hand that isn't pressed against yours moves, tracing a slow circle in the air around where your palms are joined. The movement is hypnotic, and you find yourself following the movement, watching as he repeats the motion a few times. For a moment, you feel a little hazy, eyes fluttering as your thoughts grow foggy. Then, your mind sharpens again, Jeonghan’s intense gaze coming into focus. 

"Picture your card," he instructs, loud enough for the crowd to hear. "Imagine exactly what it looks like - the edges, the images. The way it's shaped. The colors used, the details of the card face."

You think of the seven of swords, trying to focus on the image of it, trying to use it as an anchor against the way your pulse races. It's difficult to do so with the warmth radiating from his palm and the way his breath stirs the air between you. He's close enough that you can count every one of his eyelashes and see the way his dark eyes catch the light from the chandeliers overhead.

As you try and picture the curling red numbers on the card and blue paint of the swords, you let your eyes flit over his sleeves. His hands. His pockets. You try to work out what exactly the charade is, ready to catch him in his trickery. You always try, and you always fail, never quite able to pin down the source of the performance.

"You're thinking about the card," he says, dropping his voice again so only you can hear. "But you're also thinking about how I'm doing this. Trying to work it out. Trying to catch me." You don't answer, feeling the heat hit your chest and cheeks as you flush under being caught. Jeonghan smirks, nodding. "You also don’t like being caught. Are you afraid of what I'll see when I look at you?"

"You see nothing, jester."

"Untrue." He tilts his head slightly, studying you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. "I see someone who's hungry to be wanted. Someone who wants to be touched like those lovers in the ballad the bard was singing, with heat and urgency and desperate desire. Someone who wishes there was a person bold enough to touch her the way a princess is never supposed to be touched. To want her not because of the crown but despite it." His eyes glint with something darker. "And I see someone who looks at me and knows exactly what I am. A wolf in fool’s clothing, right?”

You want to deny it, but the words stick in your throat. You hate that Jeonghan is right and that he sees through you as easily as you see through him. There's a part of you that's always craved this kind of understanding, someone who could look past the crown and what lies beneath, but not like this. Not from him.

Being known by Jeonghan feels like standing naked before a predator, and the worst part is that you're not entirely certain you want to cover yourself. Your chest tightens with the contradiction of it, the simultaneous ache to be truly seen and the primal need to hide from his gaze. 

"Now," Jeonghan says, and his voice drops again, intimate and teasing. "I'm going to find your card without ever touching the deck again. Without you saying a word." He leans in, just slightly, and you can feel the whisper of his breath against your temple, warm and deliberate. Your skin tingles where it touches. "Would you like to know how?"

You can't answer. Your throat has gone tight, and you're frozen there, caught between the urge to pull away and the strange, unwanted pull that keeps you rooted in place.

"I'm going to read your mind," he murmurs, and his lips are so close to your ear now that you feel each word as much as hear it. "I'm going to look into those careful, guarded eyes and see exactly what else you're hiding."

Your hands are shaking now, both of them, and you know he can see it. The crowd can probably see it too, but they likely think it's part of the act, part of the performance. They don't know that your heart is hammering so hard it hurts, that every nerve in your body is screaming at you to move, to step back, to break whatever spell he's weaving.

"It's the seven of swords," Jeonghan says, and his voice is soft enough to raise the hair on your arms.

Your eyes widen before you can stop yourself, before you can school your expression into something more controlled. The reaction is instinctive, damning, and you see the exact moment he registers it. See the satisfaction that flickers across his face.

"There it is," he murmurs, so quietly that you almost don't hear it over the blood rushing in your ears. "That's what I wanted to see."

Suddenly he steps back, and the loss of his proximity should be a relief but instead feels like an absence. His hand that was mirroring yours drops away to reveal that the card that was pressed between your palms is no longer there. You frown, mouth falling open slightly as he reaches toward your face. You go still as his fingers brush the edge of your jaw, feather-light and deliberate. It's barely contact at all, the barest whisper of his fingertips against you, but you feel it everywhere.

When he pulls his hand away, he's holding a card between two fingers, flicking it to show you the seven of swords. The crowd erupts in applause and delighted exclamations, the sound washing over you while you stare at him. You want to know how he did it, to know what you missed. Had his whispers distracted you from when he placed it there? Was it a trick of the light?

"Your Highness," Jeonghan says, and his voice is pitched for the crowd now, all performance and charm. He bows deeply, flourishing the card. "Thank you for your assistance."

When his eyes meet yours again, they tell a different story. They say he knows exactly what effect he's had on you. That he planned it, wanted it, enjoyed watching you unravel. It makes you step back, putting necessary distance between you as your heart hammers, your pulse deceiving you.

You excuse yourself as soon as the opportunity presents itself, your father turning to another lord as he laughs about something and the crowd pressing around Jeonghan, cutting him off from you. No one notices when you slip away from the gathered nobles, picking up the skirts of your dress as you rush for the exit, skin overheating.

Cool night air washes over you as you step into the gardens and away from all the noise and eyes. The sound of the ballroom has long since faded behind you, replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves and the soft trickle of water from the fountain somewhere deeper in the garden. You inhale deeply, letting the scent of roses and night-blooming jasmine fill your lungs, trying to steady the frantic beating of your heart.

The gardens are empty. Everyone is inside, drinking and dancing and watching Jeonghan perform his tricks. Out here, there's only moonlight filtering through the branches overhead, casting everything in silver and shadow. The paths wind between tall hedges and rose bushes, their blooms pale in the darkness. Your footsteps are quiet on the stone walkway as you move deeper into the maze, away from the ballroom, away from the noise and the eyes and the suffocating weight of your crown.

You walk without direction, letting your feet carry you past marble statues and flowering vines that climb the garden walls. The moonlight catches on the petals of white roses, making them glow like ghosts. Everything is still and quiet, peaceful in a way the ballroom could never be.

Out here, you can think. Out here, you can try to make sense of what just happened.

Except you can't make sense of it. Can't explain why Jeonghan's proximity affected you so deeply, why his whispered words felt like they were carving themselves into your skin, why the loss of his touch left you aching in ways you don't want to examine. You barely know him. You don't trust him. And yet-

"Running away, Your Highness?"

You spin around, heart leaping into your throat to see Jeonghan standing in the middle of the path behind you as though he's materialized from the shadows themselves. His little hat is nowhere to be found, dressed only in the velvet outfit with crystals glittering like stars. The moonlight above catches in his dark hair, turning it silver at the edges. His eyes gleam, and you become hyperaware of the unnatural quiet of his presence.

"I needed air," you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Mm." Jeonghan takes a step closer, his movements fluid and unhurried. "Or you needed to escape me."

You don't answer - can't answer, because he's right and you both know it. He moves closer still, slow and deliberate, and you suddenly feel like he's a wolf giving the sheep time to run if it wanted to. You don't run, your feet planted to the stone path even as your pulse hammers in your throat, even as every instinct screams that you should walk away.

"You know," Jeonghan says conversationally, stopping just within arm's reach, "most people can't wait to be near me. They laugh at my jokes, beg for my tricks, hang on my every word." His head tilts slightly, studying you. "But you? You look at me like I'm something dangerous."

"You are dangerous," you say before you can stop yourself. “Even if I can’t prove it.”

His smile is slow and devastating. "Yes. I am."

The admission should frighten you. Instead, it sends heat curling through your belly, making your breath catch in your chest. He's standing close enough now that you can see the way the moonlight plays across his features. He's beautiful, with a sharp jawline and elegant nose, the curve of his mouth full and dangerous, the kind of beauty that bards say is dangerous, luring people into the spider’s web.

"But that's not why you ran," Jeonghan continues.

"It's not?"

He shakes his head. "You ran because of what I said in there. Because I saw through you, and you didn't like it."

"You don't know anything about me."

He takes another step, and now he's close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, can see the way his gaze travels deliberately over your face, your throat, the rapid rise and fall of your chest.

"I already proved that isn't true, love."

Your breath catches. Heat floods your cheeks, your chest, spreading through your entire body. "You're far too presumptuous and entirely impromper."

"I'm observant."His eyes meet yours, and there's something raw in them now, something that makes your stomach flip. "And I know you felt it too. In the ballroom, when I was close to you. The way your breath changed. The way you leaned toward me even as you tried to pull away. The way you're looking at me right now, like you can't decide if you want to run or-"

"Or what, jester?" You demand, huffing. "If you know me so well, just say it."

Jeonghan's smile turns predatory. "Or if you want to stay right here and let me show you what you desire, no matter how improper it is."

Your heart is pounding so hard you're certain he can hear it. "You wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't I?" He takes one more step, closing the distance until you can feel his breath against your lips, until you're backed against the rough bark of a tree you didn't realize was behind you. "I'm not afraid of your crown, love. I'm not afraid of what anyone would say or do. I'm not afraid of you."

The words send a thrill down your spine that you absolutely should not feel. His hand comes up, not touching you but hovering just beside your face, close enough that you can feel the heat of his palm against your cheek. You grit your teeth, refusing to lean into the hand the way you want to, refusing to give him the satisfaction again tonight.

"Why risk it, then?" You ask. "Only a fool would."

"I am a fool," he agrees. "Let me show you how foolish I am. Let me show you what it's like to be touched and desired. Let me show you what I've wanted to do since the moment I've met you and how I want to make you come undone. Let me make you lose all that polished control you loathe so much."

You should say no. Should push him away. Should remember every reason this is a terrible idea. But your body isn't listening to your mind, and you find yourself leaning toward him, drawing by the magnetic pull you've been fighting all evening.

"What do you say," he asks, hand coming to cradle your face and tilt it upward until you're looking at him with half-lidded eyes. "Do you want your desires answered?"

You lick your lips and his eyes track the movement, pupils expanding. Swallowing dryly, you give the shallowest nod, damning yourself to desire, to the feeling of being wanted and seen.

It's all he needs. Jeonghan's eyes darken, and then his mouth is on yours and the world narrows to just the heat of his lips, the press of his body as he crowds you back against the tree, the rough bark catching on the fabric of your gown. He kisses you like he's starving for it, deep and demanding, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your knees weak.

You gasp into his mouth and he swallows the sound, one hand tangling in your hair while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. The kiss is nothing like you imagined. It's not gentle or reverent or careful, but instead it’s consuming, devastating, the kind of kiss that you never knew existed.

He tastes like wine and something darker, something that makes you want more even as your lungs burn for air. His teeth catch your lower lip and you whimper, your hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders, feeling the lean muscle beneath the fabric of his costume.

"I've wanted this for so long," Jeonghan murmurs against your mouth, then trails his lips down your jaw to your throat. "Wanted you. Do you know how difficult it was to keep my hands to myself during that trick? To stand so close and not touch you the way I really wanted to?"

His teeth graze your pulse point and you can't stop the sound that escapes you, half gasp, half moan. He makes a satisfied noise low in his throat, then his hand slides from your hip to your thigh, gathering the heavy fabric of your gown and pulling it up as you pant against the tree, your head digging into the bark.

"Tell me to stop," he says, but his fingers are already tracing the inside of your thigh, moving higher. "Tell me you don't want this. Tell me all my chasing and teasing and prodding is for nothing and that I should leave."

“I can’t.”

"Fuck," Jeonghan breathes against your throat, and the crude word from his elegant mouth sends another wave of heat through you.

His fingers find the edge of your undergarments and he pulls them aside with deliberate slowness, exposing you to the cool night air. When his fingers press against you directly, finding you already slick, you bite down on your lip to keep from crying out. The gardens are secluded and shadowed, but not so far from the ballroom that sound wouldn't carry.

"Don't," Jeonghan says, his free hand coming up to pull your lip from between your teeth. "I want to hear you. Want to know exactly what I'm doing to you. Want to hear every sound you make when I touch you like this."

His fingers slip between your slick folds and you do cry out then, unable to stop yourself. Your hands tighten on his shoulders, nails digging in through the fabric of his costume, and he groans like your pleasure is his own. You feel a shiver go through him and you realize he’s just as affected by you as you are by him and it makes the heat even worse, the knowledge that he wants you this badly turning your blood to fire.

"So wet," he murmurs, his fingers sliding through your folds, exploring you with maddening slowness. "So perfect. Is this what you were thinking about during the bard's song? Someone touching you like this? Making you fall apart?"

You can't answer. Can't form words. All you can do is gasp as his fingers circle your clit with devastating precision, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your entire body. Your legs turn molten and Jeonghan pins you against the tree with his hips, sliding one of his knees between your legs to keep you pried open for his hand. 

"Answer me," Jeonghan demands. "Tell me what you were thinking about."

"Yes," you manage, the word coming out broken. "Yes, I was thinking about being touched."

His fingers press harder, moving in tight circles that make your vision blur. His fingers slide lower, teasing your entrance, and you can feel how wet you are, your entrance clenching around nothing as his fingers trace laze circles where you need him most, your hips twitching.

"I'm going to give you exactly what you want," he promises. "Going to make you come so hard you see stars.

He slides one finger inside you and you cry out, your back arching off the tree. He's watching your face with an intensity that should make you self-conscious, but you're too far gone to care, too lost in the sensation of his finger moving inside you, curling just right, finding spots that make you shake.

It feels so good - better than you imagined, even. Jeonghan is precise, leaning forward to leave bite marks and kitten licks up and down your neck as he works you slowly, finger pressing against your front wall in a way that sends you squirming against him. Your breath comes out in short, quick gasps, sweat gathering at the back of your neck as he fucks you with his finger, the wet press of his hand maddening.

"Look at you," Jeonghan murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "So beautiful like this. So desperate. I want to see you fall apart. Want to see your face when you come."

He adds a second finger and you whimper, your hands sliding from his shoulders to grip his arms, needing something to hold onto. The stretch is perfect, overwhelming, and when he curls his fingers inside you while his thumb finds your clit, you nearly sob, rolling your hips forward into his hand, thighs trembling as you clench down on his fingers.

"You're so tight," Jeonghan continues, his voice a dark purr in your ear. "So perfect around my fingers. I can feel how close you are. Can feel you clenching around me. Do you want to come, love? Do you want me to make you fall apart right here in the garden where anyone could find us?"

The thought should horrify you. Instead, it sends another wave of heat through you, making you clench harder around his fingers. You nod desperately, squeezing your eyes shut as your cunt throbs around his fingers and you writhe against the tree. 

"You like that," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Like the danger of it. Like knowing that you're supposed to be in there playing princess while you're out here letting the court jester play with this pretty pussy."

His words are filthy and crude, and they shouldn't affect you the way they do, but combined with the movement of his fingers, the pressure of his thumb on your clit, the heat of his body pressed against yours, you feel overwhelmed and strung out, the feeling low in your stomach coiling and coiling and coiling until you're babbling and squirming and squeezing your eyes shut.

"Please," you gasp, and you're not even sure what you're begging for.

"I know what you need." His fingers move faster, harder, curling inside you with devastating precision. "You need to let go. Need to stop thinking and just feel. Need someone to take control so you don't have to be perfect for once in your life."

His thumb presses harder against your clit, circling in tight, relentless patterns, and you can feel the pleasure building to an impossible peak. Your thighs are shaking, your breath coming in desperate gasps. Jeonghan invades your senses - the smell of him, the heat of him, the way his teeth scrape against your neck, the way his hair tickles against your skin.

"You're mine right now," Jeonghan growls. "Not a princess. Not a performance. Just mine. Say it."

"Yours," you gasp. "I'm yours."

"Good girl. Now come for me. Let me feel it. Let me watch you fall apart."

His fingers curl one more time, hitting that perfect spot inside you while his thumb works your clit, and the orgasm crashes over you like a wave. You cry out, unable to stop yourself, your body convulsing against the tree as pleasure floods through you. You clench around his hand, throbbing as your body shakes until you feel like you can't breathe.

Jeonghan works you through it, his fingers never stopping, drawing out your orgasm until you're boneless and gasping and oversensitive. He's murmuring praise in your ear now - how beautiful you are, how perfect, how he wants to do this again and again until you can't remember your own name - and it makes you dizzy, feeling like you're drunk off of him alone.

Finally, the waves subside and Jeonghan withdraws his hand slowly. You feel the loss of him like an ache, your legs still trembling and barely holding you up. He brings his fingers to his mouth, and you watch through hazy eyes as he licks them clean, tasting you. The sight sends another pulse of heat through you despite your exhaustion.

"Delicious," he murmurs, his eyes dark and satisfied. "Even better than I imagined."

Reality begins to seep back in slowly. The cool night air on your heated skin. The distant sounds of the party still going on inside. The rough bark of the tree against your back. What you've just done, and who you've done it with.

You should feel ashamed. Should feel horrified. Should be scrambling to fix your dress and run back to the safety of the ballroom. You don't. You feel satisfied and boneless and strangely alive all at once, like you've finally done something that feels real instead of the pretty performance.

When you look up at Jeonghan, you see him watching you, his expression unreadable in the shadow of the tree. The breeze makes the leaves dance, kissing your cooling skin as his hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your cheek with surprising gentleness.

"Regrets?" He asks, voices soft as the smoke that clings to him.

You should say yes and that this was a mistake, that it can never happen again and that you need to return to the ballroom and pretend this never happened. You should remind him that this is improper and unacceptable. Yet instead, you find yourself leaning into his touch, lashes fluttering.

"No," you admit. "No regrets."

Something like satisfaction shifts in his gaze, and he leans in and kisses you again. This time it's different - softer and slower, less consuming and more like he's savoring the taste and feel of your lips against his. You kiss him back, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the crystals click against your skin as his heart pounds beneath your palms.

When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard again, and your mind is spinning with questions you're not sure you want answered.

"How did you do it?" you ask suddenly.

Jeonghan tilts his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "Do what?"

"The card trick. In the ballroom."

His smile widens, and there's something dangerous in it now."I already told you. I read your mind."

You shake your head, confusion and disbelief warring inside you. "That would make you something magical. Not just a jester with clever tricks."

"Yes," Jeonghan agrees, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "It would."

The implication of his words hits you like a physical blow. Your breath catches, your mind racing through everything you know about him, everything you've seen, the way he seems to move through the world like something other. Like something more.

He's grinning now, watching the realization dawn across your face, and then he's kissing you again, harder this time, more possessive, like he's claiming you. Like he knows exactly what he's revealed and doesn't care. When he pulls back, his lips are still close enough that you can feel his breath against your mouth.