The soft light of late afternoon came through the dusty curtains, glowing over piles of books. The air smelled like ink, old paper, and something sharp—almost like rain that never arrived. Tom walked in through the front door. The familiar scent of books and dust wrapped around him like an old blanket. The house was quiet, except for the sounds of metal clinking and papers rustling quickly upstairs.
He dropped his backpack onto the couch and called out, “Dad?”
No answer. Just more frantic movement.
Tom climbed the stairs and pushed open the door to his father’s study. Inside, the room looked like a storm had passed through it—maps unrolled, books open, bags half-packed. On the wall above Dominic’s desk hung a faded tapestry, its geometric design worn with age but strangely hypnotic. Tom had never asked where it came from; he wasn’t sure his father even remembered.
In the middle of the mess stood his father, Dominic. His eyes, usually full of quiet worry, now burned with a wild energy Tom hadn’t seen in years.
“Where are you going?” Tom asked, surprised.
Dominic turned, still holding a coil of rope in one hand. “On a quest,” he said, smilling. “The one I’ve spent the last fourteen years preparing for.”
Tom looked puzzled. “What kind of quest?”
His father stopped packing, just for a moment. His gaze softened. “The place I’ve been searching for—it’s real. Hidden from the world. I’ve found it, Tom. Or… I think I have.”
Tom stepped closer. “You mean the temple? The one buried in the desert?”
Dominic nodded slowly. “Yes. I’ve gathered everything I need. The pieces finally fit. And I want you to come with me.”
Tom blinked. “Me?”
“You’re studying archaeology, aren’t you? You’ve read the same books, asked the same questions. I want you to see it—not through someone else’s findings, but through your own eyes.”
A question stayed on Tom’s lips—Is this another dead end?—but the words died. He watched his father, truly watched him, and saw a familiar fire burning in his eyes, but this time it wasn’t a fleeting spark. It was a bonfire.
A slow grin spread across Tom’s face. “Wow. That’s... great. I mean—thanks, Dad. When are we leaving?”
Dominic laughed softly and threw a folded map onto the bed. “Then start packing.
Tom turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. “Wait—where are we going exactly?”
His father looked up, his voice steady and low.
“To the Danakil.”
Tom’s breath caught. The Danakil Depression. A scorched, uncharted region of Ethiopia—one of the harshest places on Earth. And, according to Dominic’s theories, a land holding secrets older than any civilization.
Somewhere beneath the burning salt and stone of the Danakil, something long forgotten had waited for this moment. And now, father and son were walking into it—together.
Chapter Two – The Moon’s Doorway
The next morning, they boarded their flight from Spain to Samara. The sun was still rising when the plane touched down in Ethiopia, washing the tarmac in amber light.
There, waiting just outside the airport gates, stood Dwayne—their guide and longtime local contact. He had a lean, muscular build, his eyes bright with memory. As soon as he saw Dominic, he stepped forward with arms open.
“Welcome to Ethiopia, sir.”
Dominic pulled him into a quick embrace. “Just like your father,” he murmured. “I always miss him.”
Tom sensed a quiet history between them, unspoken but present, like a shadow in the warm morning light.
Dominic gestured between them. “This is my son, Tom—and Zen, my assistant.”
Dwayne gave a polite nod. “The desert’s waiting,” he said. “Let’s get you settled.”
Their lodging was modest but warm, a quiet place tucked between sandstone hills. That evening, after washing off the travel dust and sharing a simple dinner of lentils and flatbread, they gathered in the drawing room. The lights were low, the fan ticking slowly overhead. The air was thick with the scent of spices and dry earth.
Dominic set a worn leather journal on the table. The worn cover seemed to pulse with history.
“Eight months ago,” he began, tapping the cover, “your father sent me something from Somalia. Ancient, delicate, and full of hidden meanings. It took me most of the eight months to decode it.”
He opened the journal to a page filled with sketches and fragments of translation. One word was circled: Starioc.
“I’ve found it. The Hidden Temple of Starioc. And tomorrow, we go to see it.”
Tom leaned forward, scanning the old page.
“You’re sure?”
Dominic’s eyes didn’t waver. “Absolutely.”
The drive into the desert felt quiet and endless. The road turned from smooth asphalt to hard dirt, then to nothing but salt and sand. No birds flew. The sky stayed still. Hours passed in silence. There were no signs, no noise—just the sound of the engine and the soft wind.
At last, the vehicle came to a stop. Cracked white earth stretched out in all directions. The air was so dry, it made Tom’s throat feel scratchy.
Dominic stepped out, lifting the old journal in one hand. He adjusted his hat against the gathering dusk and looked up at the sky.
“We’ll have to wait,” he said softly.
Tom joined him, frowning. “Wait for what?”
Dwayne squinted at the barren horizon, a slight skepticism in his posture. “There's nothing here, Doc. Not even a ghost of a road.”
Dominic turned to them. His expression changed—not just excitement, but a quiet respect, like he was standing in a sacred place.
“For the moon,” he said. “The doorway to the temple only reveals itself on a very specific night—the fourteenth night of the second lunar cycle in the ancient Egyptian calendar.”
He looked at his journal, then up at the darkening sky.
“It’s tonight.”
Zen raised an eyebrow. “Ancient gates, starlight maps—either this is brilliant… or we’re chasing ghosts.”
Dominic smiled faintly. “The ancients believed Sopdet—Sirius—was the eye of the goddess who guards gateways. When the moon aligns with her gaze, the door opens. For one night only.”
Tom exhaled slowly, scanning the horizon. The desert looked the same in every direction—vast, empty, infinite. The moonlight was starting to cast long, pale shadows, but still, there was nothing.
“There’s nothing here, Dad.”
“Exactly,” Dominic said, almost whispering.
“That’s the point.”
Tom looked back at his father. In his hands, the old journal trembled slightly. Not from fear—but from belief. He had always seen his father as a man of logic and facts, a true academic. But here, in this barren land, a different man stood before him—one caught between science and something far older. Tom felt a shift inside him. Maybe this was real. Maybe it always had been.
Somewhere out on the salty horizon, the wind changed. A soft, steady sound seemed to come from the ground. For a moment, Tom thought he saw something shining far away—maybe just the heat. Or maybe the desert was waiting.
In the desert, silence wasn’t absence. It was permission.
Something was listening.
Chapter Three – The Door Between Worlds
Hours passed. The stars wheeled overhead like an ancient compass. Then—just after 2 a.m.—the air shifted.
The desert went still.
Dominic stood. His voice was tight, but steady. “There,” he said. “It’s starting.”
Everyone looked up. The full moon was high in the sky—bright, huge, and silent.
Then, very slowly, a soft light began to appear on the ground in front of them. At first, it looked like heat waves. Then shapes started to form. A perfect circle, about three feet wide, appeared on the desert floor. Around its edge, faint symbols rose up—glowing with a soft blue light, like old fire that still remembered how to burn.
Tom gasped. “Is that...?”
“The doorway,” Dominic whispered.
A tremor pulsed beneath their feet. The desert wind stilled—like breath held.
Dominic knelt beside the glowing circle, brushing away sand with the care of someone touching memory. Stone emerged—etched in worn symbols that pulsed under the moonlight.
Tom crouched beside him. “Are those Egyptian hieroglyphs?”
“Yes,” Dominic said. “But ones meant to stay buried. They only awaken on this night.”
Zen furrowed her brow. “What’s so special about tonight?”
Dominic exhaled slowly, as if the answer had waited inside him for years.
“This is the night of Sirius’ return—the helical rising of Sopdet, as the Egyptians called her. They believed it was when Isis rose from the underworld to flood the Nile and open the gates between worlds.”
He looked at the glowing ring. “And tonight, everything aligns. Lunar, solar, stellar. A convergence like this happens once every few decades. Only now... does the doorway reveal itself.”
From his backpack, Dominic took out a relic—smooth, golden, sun-shaped.
Tom watched, his pulse matching the glow.
Dominic pressed the sunstone into the circle’s center.
A low sound spread across the desert. The ground trembled. With a soft hiss, the stone ring turned and opened. A spiral staircase appeared, leading down into the ground.
No one spoke. The silence wasn’t emptiness—it was invitation.
Dominic switched on his torch. “We go together. Stay close. Remember everything.”
They went down.
The air grew cooler with each step, carrying the smell of something ancient. Stone walls surrounded them. Darkness closed in. But beneath it all, something deeper seemed to awaken—like a hidden voice waiting to be heard.
Tom tried not to think. But as the light danced on the twisting walls, a memory came back to him: his father, bent over a desk by candlelight, quietly talking to himself.
“They’ll speak to us,” Dominic had said once. “We just have to listen right.”
At the base, their torches revealed a vast chamber—symmetrical, silent, untouched.
Stone pillars stood around the room like silent guards. The walls were covered in old, faded paintings—showing stars, snakes, and priests with burning eyes. In the middle was a tall statue, dressed in stone robes, made of dark rock. Its face was impossible to understand.
Its robes had star patterns carved into them. One hand held a round disk, the other a long stick. The way it stood felt powerful—like it was watching everything.
Dominic stepped close. “This might be Starioc himself. Or a guardian.”
Zen whispered, “If no one’s been here for thousands of years… why does it still feel alive?”
Tom didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure it was empty.
Tom and Dwayne drifted toward the eastern wall. Their torchlight danced across stone.
Tom ran his hand over a blank section—and felt something give.
A click.
A quiet shift.
Part of the wall cracked open—just an inch. Then more.
A hidden door.
Dominic stared. “That wasn’t in any of the plans.”
They entered cautiously. The new passage was rougher, narrower—less ceremonial.
It led to a small, low-ceilinged chamber. No murals. No carvings. Only silence and stone.
In the corner: a pedestal.
On it, something wrapped in aged cloth.
Tom stepped closer. “This wasn’t meant to be found.”
Dominic studied the chamber. “This doesn’t match the temple’s design. It was hidden even from the builders.”
Tom lifted the object. It was heavier than it looked—cold to the touch.
He unwrapped it carefully.
Inside lay a pendant—dark metal, ornately carved, with a dull crystal at its heart. There were no inscriptions. No markings.
Zen frowned. “It doesn’t look valuable.”
Dominic narrowed his eyes. “But someone thought it was worth hiding. That means something.”
Tom held it longer than he meant to. It didn’t glow. It didn’t hum. But the moment it touched his skin, something shifted—like the air leaned in to listen.
He wrapped it again, silently, and tucked it into his pack.
They left the chamber as they had found it—shrouded in silence and shadow.
But the silence outside wasn’t the same anymore.
Some doors don’t open to let you in, Tom thought. They open to let something out.
Chapter Four – The Light and the Shadow
The morning sun cut across the sand, bright and golden. Tom’s hands shook—not from fear, but from something heavy he couldn’t explain. Dust covered his knuckles. His backpack lay open beside him, with tools and papers scattered like pieces of a puzzle.
Among them, the cloth-wrapped object sat untouched.
Tom reached for it, intending to tuck it deeper into his pack. Just as he lifted it, Zen passed behind him, holding a reflective panel she’d used to check last night’s camera angles. The metal caught a slant of light—and for the first time, sunlight struck the pendant directly.
It happened in an instant.
The dark metal pulsed.
Not a reflection—but a glow from within. The crystal at its center caught the light and glowed—not with color, but with movement.
Tom froze.
Zen stopped, catching the flash from the corner of her eye. “Did you see that?”
Tom stared down. The pendant looked ordinary again. Old. Dull. Lifeless.
“Just the sun hitting the angle,” he said softly, though he didn’t believe it.
Dominic, folding up a map nearby, looked over. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah,” Tom said too quickly.
He rewrapped the pendant—tighter this time—and buried it in the deepest part of his backpack.
They noted what they found, traced the symbols, and tried to understand the faded wall paintings. The excitement of finding something new was slowly being replaced by quiet, careful work.
But something hovered (waited) beneath the normalcy.
Tom couldn’t shake the feeling.
That night, after dinner, he sat alone outside the tent, watching as the stars slowly filled the sky. The desert was quiet—not silent, but wrapped in a stillness that seemed to watch him back.
His backpack sat beside him. The pendant was inside. He didn’t move, but the pull was there—like the hum of a question waiting to be asked.
He kept his hand near the zipper.
Just before he could touch it, a voice cut through the quiet.
“You’ve changed.”
Tom turned. Zen stood near the firepit, arms crossed loosely.
“You’ve been quiet,” she said, walking over and settling beside him. “More than usual.”
Tom hesitated. “I don’t know. It just feels like... we took something we weren’t supposed to.”
Zen looked toward the fire, its coals low and hissing. “Maybe. Or maybe we were meant to find it.”
He looked to the side. Her calm made him feel better. He let his hand fall away from the pack.
Later, in the tent, Tom tried to organize his notes. His father’s old journal lay open beside him, the familiar handwriting strangely comforting.
One sentence scrawled in the margin caught his eye—jagged, almost rushed:
“Some relics are not just keys—they’re doors.”
He paused.
Stared.
Then slowly looked toward his backpack.
Outside, the desert wind stirred the canvas.
Unseen and unnoticed, the pendant pulsed—once.
Faint.
Red.
Then still.
Far off, something turned toward Tom in the dark.
And remembered his name.
Chapter Five: The Death of Dominic
They left the desert quietly.
By early morning, the wind had changed. A storm was rising on the distant horizon—golden and uneasy. Dominic decided they should leave before the gear got buried or something important was lost.
They packed what they could, leaving behind the dust and silence that had, for days, felt like home.
Within a few hours, they were driving south—away from the dig site, away from the low mountains. By dusk, they boarded a connecting flight back to Spain.
Tom barely remembered the journey.
The airport. The shuffle of bags. Dominic reading notes on the plane, Zen staring out the window, her fingers tapping unconsciously against her knee. The quiet between them wasn’t tense—it was thick. Like everyone had questions but didn’t know what language to ask them in.
Tom watched clouds drift below the wing. He didn’t speak.
By the time they arrived at the house near Granada, night had already begun to fall.
Olive trees swayed under the dusk wind. The familiar slope of the land—the cobbled steps, the weathered door, the curve of the hills beyond—should have felt comforting.
But it didn’t.
Not this time.
The house felt colder than Tom remembered.
The desert sun had left sweat on their backs, but now, inside these familiar walls, there was a chill—a silence too deliberate, as if the walls were listening.
Dominic walked ahead, holding a leather folder thick with notes and photographs. His steps were slow, burdened by something more than fatigue. Zen followed him quietly to the guest room, where she'd be staying the night.
Tom stayed in the hall, his pack still hanging over one shoulder. The pendant inside had not pulsed again—not since that moment on the sands. But he could feel it. Like a second heartbeat.
Dominic's study door creaked open. Light spilled out. He turned and looked at Tom.
"You coming in?"
Tom nodded, though his stomach felt tight.
Dominic's study was messy but alive—books stacked on every surface, maps spread across the floor, and the heavy scent of old paper in the air. Tom sat at the edge of the room while his father walked back and forth, looking through temple sketches and muttering to himself.
"It's more than a seal," Dominic said suddenly. "This pendant... it's not just symbolic. It was meant to contain something."
"You said that already," Tom murmured.
Dominic looked up sharply. "No. You don't understand. These markings—these glyphs—we missed something critical. This isn't a relic for opening doors. It's a lock."
He turned toward a mural sketch—one Tom faintly remembered from the temple wall: a figure with empty eyes, its arms outstretched, floating over men who bowed beneath it.
"The ancients feared it," Dominic said, voice low. "They tried to hide it from history. They left traps, illusions, false trails."
Tom didn't answer. A cold sweat was forming on the back of his neck.
Dominic looked at him closely now. "You alright?"
Tom blinked. "Yeah... yeah, just tired."
But even as he said it, a sharp pressure pressed behind his eyes—like something unseen tightening its grip. His pulse thundered in his ears. The room twisted. It felt like his own thoughts were being braided into something else—something with teeth.
Don't listen to him, a voice echoed faintly in his head. He'll take me from you.
Tom froze. He caught his breath.
Dominic was still speaking, but Tom could barely hear it now—his voice muffled, distant.
He fears me. He wants to bury the truth. But we are bonded now, Tom. And he's in our way.
Tom staggered back, hands trembling. "No," he whispered, unsure whether he meant to say it aloud.
Dominic looked up. "What?"
"I—" Tom stepped back again. "I just need air."
He turned toward the door, but the pressure surged—suddenly and violently. His vision blurred. His fingers twitched. His jaw locked. Something beneath his skin felt too tight—like his body was no longer sized for him.
Then—blackness.
When Tom opened his eyes, he was standing in the center of the study, arm extended. Books and papers floated midair around him, caught in an invisible current.
Dominic stood across from him, stunned. Blood was running down his forehead from where a flying object had struck him.
"Tom," he said gently. "Listen to me. This isn't you. You can fight it."
But Tom's face was expressionless.
The pendant, now visible around his neck, burned with a low, deep glow—like an eye half-open.
And then, a voice that was not Tom's came from his mouth:
"You were never meant to know."
The voice carried no breath—no warmth. It was too smooth. Too ancient.
Dominic's expression changed—from fear to heartbreak.
"Please… he's my son."
The pendant flashed.
The blast was silent.
Bookshelves exploded behind Dominic. A wave of red energy pulsed outward from Tom's hand, and Dominic was thrown into the far wall.
One of his maps fell to the floor, burning slightly at the edges.
His body crumpled. Still. Unmoving.
The pendant dimmed.
Tom blinked and stepped back unsteadily. His knees gave way, and he fell to the ground.
"Dad?"
He crawled to him, breathing hard, heart racing.
"Dad, wake up—"
He pressed both hands to his father's chest as if to hold the life in. "Please... I didn't mean—" His voice cracked. "Can you just... wake up?"
But Dominic's eyes were open and glassy. His chest unmoving.
Tom knelt there for a long time. Long enough for the pendant to cool. Long enough for silence to swallow the room.
Zen found him hours later, still on the floor, his hands stained with dust and blood, the pendant now wrapped tightly in its cloth again.
He didn’t speak.
She didn’t ask.
But something in his eyes had changed.
Something had ended.
Chapter Six – Legacy of the Lost
Tom stayed in his father’s study for days, like a ghost haunting another man’s life. The world outside blurred. He ate when he remembered. Slept when exhaustion forced him. The rest of the time, he went through Dominic’s notebooks—sketches, translations, maps, frayed photos—trying to find sense in a life that had ended mid-sentence.
One name appeared more than once: Meroë. A city in Sudan. A place Tom had heard of only in passing—ruins buried in Nubian sands, pyramids sharper than Egypt’s, a vanished kingdom with more questions than answers.
A kingdom erased not by time, but by silence—as if history itself had turned its back on it.
Dominic had circled it. Underlined it. He’d even written, “If the truth has a birthplace, it lies beneath Meroë.”
That was enough. He booked a flight. Two days later, they were in the air.
Zen remained silent on the plane, instinctively holding back her questions—for now. Tom hadn’t spoken much since the night his father died. But his silence no longer felt lost. It felt focused.
When the plane landed in Khartoum, the heat wrapped around them like a warning. A local contact of Dominic’s—a quiet man named Khalid—met them with a dusty jeep and a handful of stories that stopped just short of truth.
They left paved roads behind within an hour, drifting into desert trails that weren’t on any GPS. Eventually, the hills gave way to red sand and broken stone.
And then the pyramids appeared. They stood like teeth—steep, narrow, weather-beaten. Not the majestic monuments of Egypt, but old and damaged, darkened by time. Broken.
Tom stepped out, boots crunching in the sand. The pendant around his neck pulsed faintly. Not glowing. Not whispering. Just… aware.
It had been quiet for days, but now it stirred.
Not like a machine starting up—but like something ancient slowly waking from sleep.
“He came here,” Tom muttered. “My father stood where we’re standing.”
A strange sense of recognition tugged at him—as if the sand knew his name before he spoke.
Zen’s scarf fluttered in the wind as she pointed. “There.”
A wall half-buried in sand bore strange carvings. Unlike anything Tom had ever seen. Not hieroglyphs. Not Coptic. Not Greek. Not Meroitic.
Zen knelt beside them, her fingers gently tracing the sharp-edged forms etched into the stone. “I once heard about a tribe near Lake Nubia,” she said quietly. “They live off most maps, and their traditions have been passed down by elders.”
Tom turned. “Here in Sudan?”
Zen nodded. “Yes. They say the tribe remembers ways older than the Nile kingdoms. No writing of their own—only oral stories. But they recall shapes like these. They call it the tongue of the ‘sky-speaking people.’”
“Sky-speaking?” Tom echoed. “What does that mean?”
“No one knew. Some said it meant they could talk to spirits. Others said they weren’t human at all.”
Tom stared at the carvings, a chill crawling down his spine despite the heat. He said nothing, but the pendant gave another faint pulse, as if listening.
It was a lead. And it was older than anything Dominic had ever studied.
That night, they camped near the ruins. The stars were sharp and endless above them. Khalid brewed thick coffee by the fire, while Tom sat silently with his father's notebook on his lap.
The carvings haunted him. The name “sky-speaking people” echoed in his head.
“People who came before the Nile,” he whispered. “Before even memory.”
The pendant pulsed once more. Stronger this time.
And far beneath their feet, something ancient shifted—and noticed.
Chapter Seven – Among the Forgotten
That night in Meroë, Tom couldn’t sleep.
The carvings stayed in his mind—their sharp lines and rough curves, not meant for humans, yet somehow familiar.
“Sky-speaking people… those who came before the Nile kingdoms.”
The pendant pulsed gently against his chest. It was quiet, but not completely still. Then, lying in the sand, he felt it—a strange pressure under him. Not wind. Not movement. Just… a stirring. As if something under the ruins was looking up.
By dawn, he’d made a decision.
With Khalid’s help, they packed essentials and drove north—past forgotten roads and silent watchposts, through land that felt suspended between history and absence. Zen guided the way, remembering tales she once heard from an elder near Lake Nubia, about a tribe that lived outside history and memory.
They followed the shoreline until the land began to bloom—just slightly. Patches of green around the lake. Trees with thick, twisted trunks. Papyrus and tall grass in the distance.
There, in a clearing, they found it.
The village looked like it had grown from the earth itself—mud-brick houses with domed roofs, wide courtyards shaded by woven palm. Children herded goats along the lake’s edge. Women carried water in hand-painted pots. Men repaired fishing nets beneath trees.
It could have been anywhere. Any time.
They were welcomed without question. Offered a place to sleep, a basin of cool water, and a quiet seat near the communal fire. No names were exchanged. No introductions. Just eyes—deep and dark and knowing.
Tom expected questions. There were none.
Days passed. He watched. Took notes. Learned the rhythm of things. At dawn, smoke curled from every rooftop at once. At dusk, the fire circles aligned like stars. Meals were shared in quiet joy. Elders told stories in half-whispers. Music came from hand drums and bone flutes.
And still, something lingered beneath it all.
Three times a day, the villagers stood in silence—always at the same angles, always facing the horizon. Twice, they gathered in circles and simply breathed together, eyes closed. A ritual? A prayer? It wasn’t clear.
At first, Tom thought it was cultural. A shared tradition. But over time, he noticed more.
People sat in the same spots. Meals happened at the same distances from certain trees. Shadows were studied. Fires were lit in precise sequence. It felt random—until it didn’t.
Watching them, Tom thought of his father—how he’d traced the same glyphs again and again, searching for repetition in chaos.
One evening, frustration rose.
“We’re wasting time!” he snapped, standing from the fire. “They won’t talk. They won’t explain. And my father’s dead because of all this mystery.”
Zen looked up at him quietly.
“So do you now.”
He froze.
“You wake with them. Sit where they sit. Watch the shadows like they do. The difference is... you’re starting to listen.”
Her voice wasn’t accusing—it was true. And Tom realized it. This wasn’t superstition. This was structure. A pattern.
That night, Tom stayed up under the stars. No fire. Just him, the pendant, and the quiet pulse of the earth.
He opened his notebook and began tracking everything—where they prayed, where the fires were lit, where the food was served, and even how their shadows fell at different times of day.
He layered the data. Compared the positions. Marked points on a blank grid.
As he drew a connecting line between two markers, the pendant gave the faintest tug against his chest—like it approved.
And slowly—like sand falling into a shape—a figure began to form. Not random. Not decorative.
He barely noticed when his eyes grew heavy. But in the brief sleep that followed, a voice whispered in his dreams:
“It’s not their map. It’s yours.”
He paused, notebook trembling slightly in his hand. If the map was his, what did that make him? A guide? A guardian? Or something unknowingly led?
By the fifth day, Tom had it. Between two prayer stones and the farthest meditation circle, beneath an old tree shaped like a hook, the lines converged. There, in the clearing, sand had been brushed flat again and again—almost like something had been buried… or hidden.
“They’re not just preserving memory,” Tom whispered. “They’re guarding it.”
Zen joined him, scanning the notebook.
“What is that?” she asked.
Tom pointed to the overlay he’d drawn—a grid of ritual movements matching Dominic’s map from Meroë.
“Coordinates,” he said. “Buried in their routines.”
“And what lies at the center?” she asked.
Tom looked out toward the tree.
“That’s what we’re going to find out.”
That night, Zen thought she saw someone watching them from the ridge—a figure outlined by moonlight. But when she turned to look again, it was gone. Only wind moved the shrubs.
And yet… she couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes that lingered.
Chapter Eight – The Book
The wind changed the moment they reached the ridge.
Tom paused, staring up at the rock face. The lines he’d drawn from the tribe’s rituals had led them here—coordinates carved in routine. Now the stone loomed before them, cracked and overgrown, but not dead.
He stepped closer, brushing aside a sheet of dry ivy. Beneath it: a narrow gap. Not natural.
Zen knelt to examine it. “This was cut,” she said. “But not recently.”
Tom reached for his flashlight and ducked inside. The air shifted—cool and dry, laced with the scent of dust and stone. The narrow tunnel opened into a cave no bigger than a temple chamber.
Silence lived here. Nothing moved. Nothing echoed. The only sound was the soft crunch of their footsteps on ancient grit.
And at the center of it all—an altar, carved from a single block of stone. Upon it rested a book.
Bound in black leather, hardened with age. Its corners were curled. Its spine intact. And on its cover, the same strange glyphs they’d seen carved into Meroë’s walls.
“A book?” Tom whispered, taking a hesitant step forward.
The pendant against his chest gave a faint throb, like a heartbeat underwater. Then again—stronger.
He reached out to touch the book—then stopped. A low groan shuddered through the stone around them.
A sound, faint and deliberate—like footsteps brushing dust—echoed through the stone. Tom held his breath. They weren’t alone.
Behind them, part of the wall creaked and shifted. A door—hidden in the cave itself—began to open. Stone dragging against stone, slow and deliberate.
Zen backed away. Tom turned toward the noise, hand instinctively moving to the pendant beneath his shirt.
From the darkness of the passage, a man stepped forward.
He moved like someone who had waited too long to rush. Draped in robes that matched the dust, with skin like carved earth and eyes too calm to be young.
His face bore lines, but no age.
“You found it,” he said, voice deep, unhurried.
Tom glanced at the book. “You knew it was here?”
“I placed it here,” the man replied. “Or rather, I was told to guard it until someone worthy arrived.”
“Worthy?” Zen asked.
“Chosen,” he said, looking at Tom. “Though not by blood. By consequence.”
The cave felt colder now.
The man stepped closer, eyes resting on the pendant through Tom’s shirt.
“That spirit,” he said quietly, “was never meant to be released. But now that it has touched you, it will not let go easily.”
“You know what it is?” Tom asked.
The man nodded.
“I know it’s only a fragment. A shadow of something much older. And that book,” he gestured to the altar, “contains what little knowledge remains about it. How to resist it. And if you dare… how to control it.”
“But beware,” he added. “Knowledge written in blood cannot be read without stain.”
“What was it called?” Tom asked.
“In old tongues, it was called Eru-shan—the one who speaks through silence. But names are shadows. What it truly is... even we never knew.”
Tom stared at the book again. The leather looked worn, but not fragile. The symbols on its cover seemed to shift slightly under the light—never fully still.
“Why was it hidden?” he asked.
“Because most men who found it wanted to use it,” the man said. “And those who didn’t… died before they could understand it.”
Tom reached for it again. The pendant burned softly against his chest. He paused.
“This… this is why my father died, isn’t it?” he asked.
“He knew too much. But not enough,” the man said gently. “You must do better.”
Tom lifted the book. It was heavier than it looked. Cold to the touch. The leather felt strange beneath his fingers—not just old, but burdened. As if it had absorbed every fear, every secret ever pressed between its pages.
Inside the front cover, scrawled in hurried ink:
“Forgive me, Tom. I tried.” —Dominic.
Tom’s throat tightened. He remembered the time his father tore a map in frustration, muttering, “The pieces never fit. Not all truths want to be known.” Tom had patched the paper, but not the silence that followed. He closed his eyes. He could still hear his father’s voice—patient and hopeful, explaining the impossible like a bedtime story. And now? Just silence—and guilt.
His hands trembled. The pendant pulsed again—then fell quiet.
And in that quiet, something inside Tom shifted. Not just grief. Something older. A memory not his own. A flash of stars that didn’t belong to this sky. A desert he had never crossed, but somehow knew.
What if this spirit didn’t want control—but companionship?
As they emerged from the cave, the sun was setting behind the ridge, painting the world in fire and shadow.
Tom didn’t speak.
Zen walked beside him, watching his face. The tribal chief remained behind, disappearing into the cave once more, door sliding shut without a sound.
The silence behind them felt heavier now—not the absence of sound, but the weight of memory sealed in stone.
Tom looked at the book in his hands.
“It’s not just a book,” he murmured.
Zen nodded. “No. It’s a weapon.”
He looked up at the horizon, where the desert met the sky.
“Then it’s time we learn how to use it.”
But deep inside, beneath the resolve, a single question remained:
What if the book learns to use us first?
And far beyond the ridge, past desert and dusk, something else felt the shift—and began to stir.
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Stories & Tales