Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

THE LONDON MUSEUM STIRRED slowly awake beneath the soft, golden wash of early morning sunlight, filtering delicately through the towering, arched windows that made up the grand hall. Stone walls seemed to glow faintly as if kissed by the light that danced across the polished marble floors. Dust motes floated like a tiny galaxy caught in the beams, suspended in silence that held both reverence and a promise. The usual bustle of visitors had yet to arrive, leaving the vast galleries of the museum steeped in calm, like a sanctuary before the day’s demands.

A woman moved through the halls with careful steps as her polished shoes barely made a sound upon the floor. It felt larger and quieter than she’d expected. Echoes of centuries whispered in every shadowed corner. She paused every now and then, catching her breath as her eyes drank in the soaring ceilings, the gilded frames of ancient paintings, the worn stone pillars that held up the weight of life itself.

Her new position was more than a job. It was a calling, one she could name without hesitation. She was here as a guardian of death, appointed not by title, but by destiny. The museum wasn’t just a place of history; it was a threshold, a liminal space where the living brushed against the dead. She had arrived early, not out of habit, but because the pull toward this place was familiar and purposeful.

Stopping before a tall glass case, her gaze settled on a statue inside. It was a figure shrouded in shadowed wings, dark, mournful. The ancient Egyptian goddess, Nephthys, protector of those caught between life and death. The figure’s eyes were carved with haunting precision, seemed almost alive, shimmering with a depth that went beyond stone and paint.

Her breath caught. To the casual observer, the statue was merely a relic, a beautiful but silent fragment of a forgotten faith. To her, it was a living memory. She reached out instinctively, though she stopped short of touching the glass. There was a quiet power here, an echo of something eternal, and it stirred something deep inside her, a reminder of a legacy she carried but dared not speak of.

The stillness shifted. A man appeared from the museum’s gift shop, his steps tentative against the polished floor. He looked out of place in the muted grandeur– his dark hair tousled, his dark brown eyes wide and uncertain as they flickered over the room. His hands fidgeted nervously with the hem of his shirt as though he had not quite decided what to do with himself.

His gaze landed on the statue where the woman stood, absorbed by it.

“Th-that’s Nephthys,” he said softly, his voice breathless, like he was trying to confirm something just for himself. “Guardian of the night. Protector in the afterlife.”

She looked up, startled by the familiar words, words she had spoken quietly moments before in her own mind. She met his gaze. Her voice was warm and soft, tinted by a subtle lilt, one that matched her Egyptian-American heritage.

“Mhm,” she nodded. “She watches over the lost and forgotten,” she stated. “A protector for those who can’t protect themselves.”

He shuffled on his feet, avoiding eye contact for a moment before stealing a glance at her, then back at the statue. “I-I’m Steven,” he said quickly as if hurriedly trying to explain something important. “With a V.”

She smiled warmly, sensing his nervousness. “It’s nice to meet you, Steven… with a V,” she said, biting back a laugh. “Mitzi,” she added, introducing herself with quiet pride. “First day as a tour guide.”

Steven nodded, biting his lower lip and looking momentarily embarrassed. “Right, right,” he mumbled, then laughed awkwardly, a little forced. “You probably know loads more about this place than I do.” He scratched the back of his neck as he chuckled nervously. “I’m, uh, just working the gift shop.”

Before more could be said, a sharp voice rang out from the back.

“Steven! You’re needed at the till—now!”

The director’s impatient call cut through the quiet like a whistle.

Steven’s face flushed crimson. “Y-yeah, of course.” He stumbled on his feet for a split second, then nodded quickly. “Duty calls,” he muttered, offering Mitzi a small, apologetic smile before he hurried back toward the gift shop… just about knocking over a rack full of postcards on his way.

Mitzi lingered by the statue with one hand resting lightly against the strap of her bag. The museum was slowly waking up now with soft creaks of distant doors opening, muffled hums of the front desk’s computer booting up, and the occasional distant cough from the lounge. All of it was built gently into the kind of calm rhythm that museums tended to breathe into life each morning.

She didn’t move when Nephthys, herself, appeared rather tall at her side.

The goddess’s presence was like cool air in a sun-warmed room: subtle, but undeniable once you noticed it. No dramatic arrival. No crack of thunder. No such shimmer of light. Just suddenly there, as if she had always been standing, waiting for Mitzi to be still enough to notice.

Nephthys looked at the statue of herself with mild amusement. Her vulture eyes narrowed slightly as if mentally critiquing the artistry. “They always made me look so… severe,” she spoke as she stretched her wings out. “Those wings are nice. Good symmetry.”

“You do come across a bit intense sometimes,” Mitzi smiled softly. “Maybe it’s the whole guardian of death thing,” she bit back a laugh.

Nephthys glanced sideways at her, feathers ruffled, beak mocking offense. “I prefer the term ‘threshold-keeper, ’” she said. “Less gloom, more dignity.”

“Threshold-keeper,” Mitzi repeated. “Yeah. That Tracks,” she spoke softly.

There was a pause as they stood together, surrounded by the millennia-old artifacts, as well as the soft wash of early light across stone and glass. One janitor’s trolley rolled past on squeaky wheels in the distance, its driver humming tunelessly to himself. The faint scent of floor polish lingered in the air, blending strangely with the mustiness of ancient papyrus and aged wood.

“So,” Mitzi said after a while, breaking the silence. “Not here for anything?”

Nephthys shook her head, slow and deliberate. “No crises. No omens. No hidden messages or prophetic dreams,” she stated. “I thought I would walk with you… for a bit.”

Mitzi raised an eyebrow. “You don’t do casual.”

“I can ,” Nephthys said with a faint smile, “you just haven’t seen it much. Most people don’t. But you—” she gestured toward her, “you’re different.”

“That’s what everyone says when they want you to deal with weird stuff.”

“Yes,” the goddess admitted with a shrug, “But in your case, it happens to be true.”

Mitzi crossed her arms over her chest and looked out across the Egyptian gallery. Painted coffins, glass-covered scrolls, solemn statues standing frozen in their own long silences. She loved this space—not because of the spectacle, but because of the stillness. It felt like walking through echoes of something deeply human. Grief. Memory. Continuity.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m the right person for this,” Mitzi spoke quietly.

Nephthys didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stepped forward and trailed a finger along the air just above a sandstone relief, not touching it—just hovering, reverent.

“You’re not here because you’re the strongest,” she informed. “You’re here because you listen , ” she emphasized. “You don’t try to control the silence. You let it speak.”

Mitzi frowned, then let her arms fall to her sides. “That sounds like a nice way of saying I talk to ghosts.”

Nephthys smiled gently. “If you did, they’d feel heard.”

They walked slowly now, side by side, passing beneath towering columns, carvings that had weathered three thousand years. Mitzi found comfort in the weight of the space, in the feel of the smooth stone beneath her fingers, in the subtle scent of age. There was a pulse here, slow and steady, and sometimes, when she stood still long enough, she could almost feel it in her chest.

As they passed into a smaller side gallery, Nephthys wandered a few steps ahead, her wings trailing faintly behind her like a dark veil. No one else would see her—she didn’t need to hide. She simply didn’t register unless she wanted to.

“Banana bread in the staff room,” the goddess said, inspecting a rack of many informational pamphlets as if they might reveal a hidden prophecy. “The director brought it in. She used nutmeg. It’s good.”

Mitzi blinked. “You were in the staff room?”

Nephthys gave her a sidelong glance. “I observed the staff room. Mostly. The coffee smells like burnt regret.”

Mitzi snorted, covering her mouth with her hand to muffle the laugh. “You’re not supposed to eat.”

“I don’t need to eat. That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate quality baked goods.” Nephthys gave her a look. “Your people made offerings for a reason.”

Mitzi stood still, letting the warmth of the morning light pour over her like a slow tide, brushing faint gold across the cool stone floor and the curved edge of a glass display case. The sun filtered through tall windows, casting long shadows that shifted gently with the passing breeze outside. She didn’t look at Nephthys, who lingered quietly nearby, but spoke softly into the hushed space between them. “He came back again.”

Nephthys said nothing—her presence was steady, patient, like the silent stone pillars that held up the gallery’s ceiling. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and polished wood, a kind of reverence that seemed to slow time itself.

Mitzi’s gaze drifted toward the far corridor, and in that moment, her eyes caught the familiar figure stepping into the gallery. Steven. He entered cautiously, hands awkwardly full of a half-collapsed box from the gift shop, the corners crumpled as if he’d tried to compress more than it could hold. His limbs folded inward, his shoulders hunched slightly, like a man trying not to disturb the fragile air that surrounded the artifacts.

He looked up and saw her there by the case bathed in light. And for a suspended moment, everything stilled: the creak of floorboards, the distant murmur of footsteps in the next room, even the faint hum of electricity overhead—all faded into a silent pause.

“Oh, hi again,” Steven said, blinking as if he were surprised to find himself here once more. “Just, uh—keychains. Scarab ones this time. Really committed to the theme,” he added, his voice light but tinged with a kind of awkward hopefulness.

Mitzi watched him with a steady calm that belied the subtle flutter inside her chest. Her smile was small and tired, the edges softened by something deeper than patience—perhaps understanding. She didn’t need words to explain why he kept coming back. Not consciously. But there was something about him, some restless thread pulling at his core, a need to orbit this place—and somehow, her.

“I like the scarabs,” she said, her voice quiet, but sure.

Steven gave a nervous laugh, the sound a little brittle in the vastness of the room. Then, as if his hands had a mind of their own, he dropped one of the keychains. It bounced off the polished floor with a sharp clink, breaking the silence just a little too sharply. He winced, crouched to retrieve it, and stood up quickly, as if apologizing not just for the noise but for the intrusion of his presence.

“I, uh—there’s a mislabeled plaque in the gift shop,” he began, fumbling with words. “I keep meaning to fix it. Thought maybe you’d want to help. Or supervise. Or—” He paused, searching her face. “Judge me silently while I do it wrong. That’s fine too.”

Mitzi shook her head softly, a trace of warmth in her eyes. “I’m not here to judge you, Steven.”

That simple reassurance made him pause, the nervous energy in his posture easing slightly. His gaze held hers a moment longer, and for a fleeting instant, something ancient seemed to surface from the depths of his eyes—something unaware, fragile, and gentle. A quiet ache beneath the surface, as if a soul long forgotten was stirring, reaching out, aching to understand its place in this strange, sunlit gallery—and perhaps, in her presence.

Mitzi watched Steven carefully as he retreated toward the gift shop, the awkward box clutched in his hands like a fragile shield against the world. His shoulders were tense, and his steps quick but uncertain, as if every step carried the weight of something he couldn’t quite put into words. When he finally disappeared from sight, swallowed by the small crowd milling around the souvenir stands, Mitzi let out a slow breath and turned back to Nephthys. The familiar weight of the morning’s unease settled over her again, pressing down in the quiet spaces between their words.

“He’s restless,” Mitzi said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, more a confession than an observation. “More than usual.” Her eyes lingered on the statue before them—a silent sentinel carved in stone, cold and unmoving, unlike the turmoil stirring inside Steven.

Nephthys folded her dark wings slowly, the feathers rustling like whispered secrets. She regarded Mitzi with a knowing look, as if she could read the tangled thoughts behind her words. “Marc sent you to watch him,” she said, the certainty in her tone grounding the fragile moment between them.

Mitzi’s breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself not to look away from the statue’s cold gaze. “He did,” she admitted quietly, the weight of the responsibility settling on her shoulders like a heavy cloak. “He told me to keep an eye on Steven. To make sure he stays out of the way of his mission with Khonshu.”

Nephthys’s dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she studied Mitzi, the faintest shadow of a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “And how do you feel about that?” she asked quietly, voice tinged with curiosity and something softer—concern, perhaps. “About Marc asking you to watch over Steven like this, to keep him in the dark?”

Mitzi hesitated for a moment, the weight of the question settling deep in her chest. Her eyes flickered with uncertainty before she met Nephthys’s gaze steadily, steadily, and honestly. “I respect my husband’s wishes,” she said simply, her voice calm but firm. “If he believes this is what’s best—for Steven, for all of us—then I’ll do it. I want to protect both of them.”

Nephthys let out a slow, almost amused sigh, the sound like wind rustling through ancient trees. She folded her wings tighter around her, as if gathering strength. “Khonshu is an old bird, ” she said, voice layered with both respect and exasperation. “Ancient, yes, but often lacking in true vision. He sees what he wants to see, not always the whole picture. His wisdom is vast, but his understanding… sometimes, it’s blindered.”

She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a softer, more urgent tone, the kind that seemed to pull at the very fabric of the air between them. “Marc would be stronger if he allowed his other self to be a part of him in full. Not just a tool for missions or a shadow lurking at the edges. Steven isn’t a problem to be managed or a secret to be hidden away; he’s a part of Marc’s soul. Whether Khonshu wants to admit it or not, that boy is woven into the very core of him.”

Mitzi’s fingers tightened around the edge of her sleeve, knuckles whitening. Her eyes, steady and clear, held a fierce determination. “I understand that,” she said quietly, voice low but resolute. “I see it every day—in the way Marc hesitates, in the moments when Steven slips through the cracks of his armor. But sometimes, respecting Marc means trusting his decisions. Even when I worry about what they cost him.”

A silence fell between them, heavy but not uncomfortable—more like the calm before a storm, or the quiet understanding shared by those who carry burdens not easily spoken aloud.

Nephthys nodded, her gaze softening with a rare tenderness. “You have more strength than you realize, Mariam. Protecting Steven isn’t just about shielding him from danger—it’s about holding the pieces of a fractured soul together, no matter how fragile they seem. And in that, you and Marc are not alone.”

Mitzi lingered for a few moments longer beneath the vaulted ceiling, letting the weight of Nephthys’s words settle into the marrow of her bones. The goddess stood beside her like a sentinel carved from twilight, ancient and unmovable, but Mitzi felt no fear—only the strange, solemn comfort of being seen in the fullness of her role.

“You know,” Mitzi said at last, her voice low but thoughtful, “Some days, I wonder if anyone will ever look at all of this—the myths, the statues, the worn-out texts—and understand what it really meant to be remembered. Not worshipped, not feared… just remembered.”

Nephthys inclined her head, her voice no louder than the hush of dust settling on old stone. “That is the heart of death, Mitzi. Not the end, but the memory that keeps the name alive. You understand that more deeply than most.”

A long silence stretched between them, not hollow, but full of light and shadow, of memory and promise.

The moment was broken only by a faint scuffle of shoes echoing from the marble corridor. Somewhere nearby, a child laughed, chasing the sound of her own footsteps. The museum had opened its doors for the day. Life had resumed.

Nephthys’s gaze shifted toward the sound, and her wings shimmered faintly in the changing light. “You should go, ” she said softly, almost fondly. “Your tour group will be gathering soon.”

Mitzi didn’t move right away. She glanced toward the statue once more—at the hard lines, the still expression, the careful craftsmanship meant to anchor something eternal into form. And for just a breath, it looked almost different to her. Not severe. Not distant.

“I’m going,” Mitzi murmured finally, as much to herself as to Nephthys. She turned away, the morning light casting her shadow long behind her across the gleaming floor.

Nephthys didn’t follow. She didn’t need to.

As Mitzi’s footsteps faded into the rhythm of the waking museum, the gallery returned to stillness. The goddess stood alone before her likeness, feathers shifting faintly in the unseen wind of passing time.

She spoke softly, to no one and to everyone all at once.

“Let the living walk forward. The dead will follow in silence.”

And then—like a breath exhaled—she vanished.

Chapter Text

THE LONDON MUSEUM WAS UNUSUALLY quiet for a Thursday. But Mitzi didn’t mind. She found herself savoring the silence more and more these days, especially in the early hours, when the exhibits still rested untouched, not yet stirred by the shuffle of tourist feet or the low, repetitive hum of prerecorded audio guides echoing down the halls. 

Those moments, before the doors opened and the day truly began, felt almost suspended in time. There was something almost sacred about that hush.

The stillness settled around her like a soft shawl, familiar and calming. The air carried with it a subtle medley of scents: the cool mineral tang of stone, the faint dryness of aged paper, and just a whisper of polish—the kind used on the brass railing overnight, still clinging to the surface in a way only she seemed to notice.

She moved slowly, deliberately, letting her footsteps echo lightly off the marble floors. The museum wasn’t just a place of work; it was beginning to feel like a kind of sanctuary.

She was kneeling at the base of a display case in the Egyptian wing, her gloved fingers moving carefully as she gently brushed a thin film of dust from the limestone edge of a burial stela. The surface, etched with faint, timeworn hieroglyphs, seemed to breathe a little easier with every delicate stroke. She paused for a moment, studying the carving with quiet appreciation, the hush of the museum wrapping around her like a cocoon.

Then, the silence was broken—softly, almost apologetically—by a voice behind her.

“Oh—uh—morning, Mitzi. Didn’t mean to startle—just passing through.”

She looked over her shoulder.

Steven stood just beyond the threshold of the exhibit space, half-in and half-out of the shadows that fell across the stone floor. A clipboard was clutched in one hand, tilted slightly against his chest, and his curls—impossibly unruly at the best of times—were a little damp from the drizzle outside, clinging to his forehead in flattened spirals. His lanyard, as usual, had become entangled in the zipper of his jacket, caught at a crooked angle across his chest.

He looked sheepish. Unsure if he should stay or go. As if simply existing too loudly might upset the artifacts.

Mitzi smiled without rising. “You’re not startling,” she said lightly, returning her attention to him with a glint of amusement. “You’re sneaky. There’s a difference.”

Steven flushed, the color rising swiftly to his cheeks, settling somewhere between flattered and mortified. His eyes darted downward, then to the side, as though searching for an exit that didn’t involve further embarrassment. 

“Right. Sneaky. That’s me,” he mumbled, managing a crooked smile.

Mitzi straightened with a quiet exhale, brushing the dust from her gloves against the fabric of her thighs. The limestone grit left faint smudges on the dark canvas of her trousers, but she didn’t seem to notice—or mind.

“You off gallery duty this morning?” she asked, cocking her head slightly as she looked at him.

He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Technically, I’m meant to be checking on the gift shop inventory,” he admitted, eyes narrowing slightly as if that particular task had personally offended him. “But I got, um… sidetracked.”

Her brow arched, a flicker of amusement lighting her expression. “By the dead?”

He met her gaze again, sheepish but smiling now. “By the display labels,” he said. His fingers tapped lightly against the edge of his clipboard, as if that might somehow back up his excuse. “I noticed the Sekhem statuette was still listed as Fifth Dynasty, but it’s actually a Sixth—see the hairline carving there, just behind the uraeus?” He motioned vaguely toward the case beside her, already warming to the subject despite himself. “Classic Old Kingdom transition marker. Easy mistake.”

There was a soft, earnest enthusiasm in his voice now, one that seemed to override the earlier awkwardness. When he spoke about artifacts—especially Egyptian ones—something in him relaxed, as though the subject matter anchored him.

She glanced over at the statuette in question, her gaze following the subtle motion of his hand. The figure stood just off-center in the display case, perfectly still in its ancient poise, the pale carving of the uraeus barely visible beneath the glass. Sure enough, the placard at its base read Fifth Dynasty —a detail she’d skimmed dozens of times without a second thought.

“I hadn’t even noticed that,” she said, her brow furrowing slightly—not in irritation, but in thought. The admission carried no defensiveness, only quiet acknowledgment.

Steven gave a modest shrug, eyes still fixed on the figure as if it might offer him a reassuring nod. “I’ve just stared at it too many times, probably,” he said, his voice a touch sheepish. He edged a step closer, his trainers scuffing softly against the floor, careful not to break whatever invisible boundary he sensed around her workspace. “If you want, I could help with the re-cataloguing? I mean—not to intrude—but if you’re working on it now…”

There was no pressure in the offer. Just a cautious kind of hopefulness, tucked behind the gentle cadence of his words.

Mitzi paused. She could have said no. Could have kept her solitude, her rhythm, the comforting silence that framed her mornings so reliably. It would have been easy, expected, even.

But something about the way he stood there—earnest, tentative, not wanting to assume but clearly wanting to help—gave her pause. He was trying, she realized. Not just to be helpful, but to be part of something.

She tilted her head, assessing. Then gave a short, decisive nod.

“You know what? Sure,” she said, gesturing toward the supply cart beside her. “Grab a pair of gloves.”

Steven lit up like a lamp.

“Brilliant,” he breathed, his grin blooming across his face before he turned toward the cart with renewed energy, almost forgetting he still had the clipboard in his hand.

They fell into an easy rhythm, despite the initial bumps, quite literally. Within the first five minutes, Steven managed to knock over a low wooden stool with the back of his foot, the clatter sharp in the otherwise hushed wing. He winced as it skidded a few feet before coming to rest against the base of a nearby plinth.

“Sorry—sorry,” he blurted, already stooping to upright it. And barely a minute later, while shifting to examine a lower shelf inside the case, he nearly elbowed a labeled placard clean off its stand. “Oh no—bloody hell—sorry again—really, I—”

Mitzi only laughed, the sound soft but unmistakably delighted. She rested her forearms lightly on the edge of the case, watching him with one brow arched.

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m a hazard to historical preservation,” he replied solemnly, though his tone carried the weight of self-deprecating humor.

“A charming one, though.”

That made him blink.

He looked at her—just for a moment—and then away again, too fast. Back to the display, to the relative safety of limestone fragments and curated glass. His ears turned a brilliant, unmistakable shade of red.

𓂀

They worked together for the next hour, quietly and steadily, surrounded by the faint hum of lights and the muffled sounds of distant footsteps echoing through other wings. Mitzi handed him artifacts with gloved fingers; Steven received them with care. Together, they rechecked inscriptions, shifted display mounts by degrees, and adjusted the angles of small statuettes so their details caught the light just so.

And all the while, Steven talked.

His knowledge was startling—not just accurate but deeply textured. He didn’t recite from guidebooks or scripts; he spoke with the urgency of someone who had spent long nights reading footnotes and longer ones thinking about them. His enthusiasm vibrated beneath his words, a current he couldn’t quite rein in.

“…and the thing is, most people don’t notice the shift in style between provincial and central workshops,” he was saying, bent forward now to point at a small base carving. “But if you look at the way the cartouches are nested—see that little flick on the edge?—that’s entirely indicative of—”

Mitzi leaned casually on the edge of the display case, her posture relaxed, eyes tracking his animated gestures with open amusement. Her lips curved, just slightly, before she let the thought escape aloud.

“You’re like a walking museum guidebook with curly hair,” she said, her voice light, teasing, but unmistakably fond.

Steven froze mid-gesture, one hand still half-raised near the edge of the case. He blinked at her, surprised, as if unsure whether he’d heard correctly.

“Is that a compliment?” he asked, his tone tentative, but edged with something… hopeful?

Mitzi didn’t hesitate. “Obviously.”

That did it.

He ducked his head immediately, his curls falling forward just enough to obscure his eyes. But not enough to hide the grin that spread across his face—wide, unguarded, utterly sincere. The smile lit up his entire expression, revealing a dimple on his left cheek she hadn’t noticed before. It softened him in a way that made her pause—just for a breath—caught off-guard by how unexpectedly endearing it was.

At some point, as they repositioned a small faience amulet on its stand, Steven hesitated—just briefly—then reached into the pocket of his hoodie. His movements were a bit awkward, like he was second-guessing whether he should be doing this at all. From the folds of fabric, he pulled out a small square of paper, creased but carefully protected between two thin slips of cardboard. He handled it with care, smoothing it out on the edge of the display cart before offering it to her, his fingers brushing hers in the handoff.

“I, uh…” he began, already stumbling a little. “Made a label for this one a while ago. Just for fun. Yours is probably better, obviously, but—”

She took it gently, her brows lifting with curiosity as she unfolded the paper.

His handwriting was precise and unusually neat, the kind of lettering that suggested patience and intention. Inked in black pen, the label was more than just words: along the margins, he’d drawn small illustrations—careful, detailed linework of a scarab, a falcon mid-flight, and the Eye of Horus rendered with delicate crosshatching. They weren’t showy, just… quietly beautiful.

Mitzi blinked at it, then looked back up at him.

“This is lovely,” she said softly. Her fingers hovered over the edge of the page. “Did you draw these?”

He gave a half-shrug, as though the compliment made him uncomfortable. “Yeah, uh—helps me remember stuff better when I do it by hand. I’ve got notebooks full of it. Sad, really.”

“Not sad,” she said, still admiring the tiny scarab in the corner. “It’s careful. Thoughtful. We could use more of that.”

Something passed between them then—not a silence, but a shared space, easy and warm. The kind that didn’t need filling.

Steven glanced at her, then away, a smile flickering at the edge of his mouth. And for once, he didn’t try to apologize.

He didn’t respond right away. The quiet stretched a moment longer than expected. When she glanced up, she caught him looking at her—not directly, not boldly. Just a sidelong glance, quick and fleeting, as if he hadn’t meant to let it happen at all. And the moment their eyes nearly met, he looked away, sudden and sharp, as if he’d been caught peeking into a room he wasn’t supposed to enter.

She let it pass.

There was no need to call it out. Some things were better left to drift unspoken in the quiet spaces between words.

Later, as they were finishing up the last few tags, she struggled to affix a small magnet to the inside of a glass display panel. It was one of those fiddly little tasks that demanded just the right angle and just the right pressure. The magnet snapped out of her grip once—then again—and finally stuck, but stubbornly askew.

She made a soft, frustrated sound in the back of her throat and reached to nudge it into place, brows furrowed in concentration.

And that was when Steven spoke, voice low and casual, but laced with a spark of mischief.

“Must be the curse of misplaced polarity,” he said. “Classic symptom of misaligned magnetic fields. Everyone talks about mummy curses, but that’s the real wrath of the gods.”

It was dumb. Very dumb. But it made her laugh.

Not a polite chuckle or a breathy exhale through her nose, but a real laugh—quick, unexpected, unguarded. It rose out of her before she had the chance to stifle it, startling even herself. The sound echoed lightly in the quiet wing, bouncing off stone and glass like something sacred and irreverent all at once.

Steven froze, blinking at her like she’d just triggered a secret mechanism in a tomb wall. “Was that a laugh?” he asked, eyes wide with the same awe one might reserve for a solar eclipse.

She tilted her head, one brow arching. “You’re keeping count?”

“I mean—it’s rare!” he said, flustered now, but still grinning. “You’ve got this mysterious curator thing going on. Hard to crack.”

“Mysterious,” she echoed, amused. “You’re projecting.”

He gave a helpless little shrug, hands lifted in mock defeat. “Maybe a little.”

They stood there for a moment, the magnet finally clinging in place, the display case just about finished. Around them, the museum remained quiet, untouched by time. And something between them—fragile, curious—lingered in the air like a held breath.

She smiled again, but this time it was softer, less amused, more sincere. The kind of smile that lingered at the corners of her mouth even after she spoke.

“Thank you for helping, Steven,” she said, her voice low. “I would’ve been here all day otherwise.”

He fidgeted with the edge of a display label, the corner crinkling slightly between his gloved fingers. “Happy to,” he murmured. “Really.”

They stood there a moment longer, hands stilled, neither quite ready to call the moment finished. The silence that fell between them wasn’t awkward—not tight or uncertain—but full. Full of something quiet and unspoken, like breath held at the edge of a thought. As if they were both waiting to see if the other would say something else.

Finally, Steven took a small step back. He cleared his throat, gently, and offered a sheepish half-smile. “Guess I should let you get back to the mysterious business of being in charge.”

Mitzi arched a brow at him, the smile returning just a bit sharper this time. “You’re the one who knows all the secrets.”

He gave a quiet laugh, shoulders rising. “I just read too much.”

“Then keep reading.” Her words hung there for a beat—simple, but meant. A nod of acknowledgment. Of encouragement.

Steven lingered a second more at the threshold of the gallery, fingers tightening around the clipboard now tucked under one arm. His posture shifted, just slightly, like he might turn back and say something else. Like something was on the tip of his tongue, just shy of form.

But in the end, he didn’t.

Instead, he offered her one last glance—quick, but not fleeting—and then turned away, disappearing down the long corridor, his footsteps muffled against the stone floor.

Nephthys appeared beside Mitzi a few seconds later, silent as breath.

There was no fanfare to her arrival—no gust of wind, no shimmer of light—only the shift in presence, subtle but unmistakable. The air felt denser when she was near, ancient in a way that defied language. She stood as she always did: tall, regal, cloaked in layers of shadow and memory. The linen folds of her robes barely stirred, and yet she seemed to carry all the stillness of a tomb.

“Why do you always show up right after he leaves?” Mitzi asked quietly, without turning. She didn’t need to look. She could feel the goddess beside her.

Nephthys said nothing for a long moment. Her gaze lingered on the corridor, eyes ringed in black kohl, older than the pyramids themselves, fixed on the place where Steven had disappeared. As though she could still see him there. Or perhaps… see something else entirely.

“He follows the old paths,” she said eventually, her voice low and soft and far too ancient for the room they stood in. “Even when he doesn’t know it.”

Mitzi turned her head slightly, curiosity piqued. “And that means something?”

But the goddess didn’t answer.

Instead, she stepped away, her form moving like a shadow across polished floors. Without sound, without weight. And before Mitzi could press her further, Nephthys dissolved into the dim space between exhibits—her outline unraveling like smoke, like memory, until there was nothing left but stillness.

Mitzi remained where she was, alone, again.

She looked down at the handmade label still cradled in her gloved hands. The paper was slightly bent from where she’d held it, soft at the edges from care. Her thumb moved slowly over one of the tiny inked illustrations—an impossibly small scarab, drawn with such intent it almost looked like it might crawl off the page.

Chapter Text

IT WAS THE KIND OF AFTERNOON where the light slanted low and golden through the upper windows of the museum, casting long, quiet beams across the floor of the Egyptian gallery. The shadows of window mullions stretched in crisp lines over stone and glass, turning the hall into a sundial of silence. Dust drifted lazily in the air, caught in the glow, dancing in slow motion—tiny flecks suspended like constellations, shifting gently with each imperceptible current of air.

The building had emptied early—an unexpected fire drill had sent half the staff home and left the other half trailing into back offices, waiting for clearance to resume their routines. Even the ever-present hum of motion had stilled. The usual shuffle of shoes and murmur of conversations had been replaced by stillness. A hush that felt deeper than usual. Older.

Mitzi stayed behind.

There was always something that needed doing. Today, it was a crate—one of the many unassuming archival boxes that had migrated to the wrong storage room, its inventory slip faded and slightly torn. Someone had scribbled a note on the lid in pencil: Check contents. It was full of loose amulets and cataloged linen fragments from a dig that no one seemed to remember, all jumbled together like forgotten ghosts. Not exhibition-worthy, but not discardable either.

Inside, it was a mess. Loose amulets. Cataloged linen fragments. Pottery shards, their labels barely clinging to the thread of context. Pieces from a dig no one seemed to remember—misplaced, misfiled, half-forgotten. All jumbled together as ghosts shuffled out of time. They weren’t exhibition-worthy, but not discardable, either.

She didn’t mind the work. It was grounding. Tangible. Something solid to hold in her hands, something real. No symbols to interpret, no cryptic silences from goddesses who walked like smoke. Just weight and dust, and the careful turning of one thing into its proper place.

The box, however, was heavier than she’d anticipated.

She crouched beside it, boots braced against the cool tile and reached for a grip that looked good enough to manage. The angle was awkward, the light sharp and slanting across the floor, and she squinted against the glare. Her fingers reached for the crate’s edge—but it was sharper than it looked.

Her grip slipped.

The crate lurched suddenly, and the carved wooden corner scraped hard against the inside of her wrist.

She hissed under her breath, jerking back by instinct. A thin line of blood welled up, red and sharp, bright against the pale underside of her skin.

She shook her hand once, twice. It wasn’t deep. Just enough to sting.

“Mitzi? What—oh no—are you alright?”

Steven’s voice rang out before she even registered the sound of approaching footsteps. He rounded one of the nearby pillars, eyes wide, clearly startled by the sight of her crouched on the floor.

He’d taken off his name badge—stuffed into his coat pocket—and his curls were even more unruly than usual. He’d been on his way out. But now he was already crossing the room, concern written plainly across his face.

She lifted her hand in a mild gesture of reassurance. “It’s fine,” she said. “Just a scrape.”

“You’re bleeding,” he said, horrified, kneeling beside her before she could blink.

“It’s fine, really,” she tried to reassure him.

“That’s what people always say before fainting in a cloud of historical romance,” he replied, kneeling beside her without hesitation.

She gave him a flat look.

He ignored it, already rummaging through his pockets with quick, practiced movements. A moment later, he produced a thoroughly crumpled tissue, followed swiftly by a small, neatly packed travel first-aid kit. Because, of course, he had one. She wasn't even surprised.

“I’ve got plasters,” he said with the unshakable determination of someone about to do a good deed. “Antiseptic wipes. Um. Maybe a mint, if you’re also in danger of bad breath?”

Mitzi exhaled, something between a laugh and a sigh.

“You carry this around all the time?” she asked, watching as he unwrapped a wipe with the kind of practiced care that made her eyebrows lift.

“You’d be amazed how often people in museums accidentally stab themselves with artifact mounts,” he said. “Or clipboards. Or packing tape. Occupational hazard.”

He took her hand gently, almost reverently, and turned it palm-up. The antiseptic was cold. Sharp. She flinched, just barely. He didn’t let go.

“Steven,” she said, a note of amusement in her voice, “I’m fine.”

“I believe you,” he said with quiet conviction, even as he placed the plaster with slow, deliberate care. Each motion was precise. Almost tender. “But were you really about to lift that yourself?”

“I wasn’t planning to juggle it.”

He puffed up his chest, suddenly full of mock bravado. “Well, I’ll get it. One box. Easy.”

Mitzi rose to her feet, brushing dust from her knees with the backs of her hands. She arched a skeptical brow.

“You sure? I’ve seen you nearly take out a sarcophagus label with your elbow.”

Steven looked appropriately wounded. “That was one time.”

“Two times,” she corrected with no mercy.

He gave her an exaggeratedly affronted look, the clipboard long forgotten now. “I’m stronger than I look.”

“Debatable.”

But she didn’t stop him.

She stepped back, watching with open curiosity as he moved to the crate. Steven bent at the knees—properly, she noted—then wrapped his fingers around the sides. For a second, she braced herself for a wobble. A wince. Maybe a small, heroic topple.

Instead, he lifted the box in one smooth motion. Not effortlessly—there was a tightening around his jaw, and his shoulders tensed—but there was no flailing, no fumbling. Just steadiness. His stance adjusted automatically, weight balanced, arms taut beneath the sleeves of his hoodie.

Mitzi blinked. “Okay. You’ve been holding out on me.”

He shot her a grin, half-pleased, half-embarrassed, the pink rising in his cheeks again. “Guess I have hidden talents.”

“You trying to be my knight in shining museum ID badge?” she asked, eyebrow raised, tone dry but unmistakably playful.

Steven froze mid-step, still holding the crate. His eyes went wide, and for a second, he looked like a deer caught in the museum’s track lighting.

“I—I mean—only if—uh—wouldn’t want a lawsuit or anything—” he stammered, voice pitching slightly higher as the words stumbled out of his mouth, barely in order.

Mitzi tilted her head, arms crossed again, amused by the sheer panic flickering across his face. “Steven?”

He winced. “Sorry,” he said quickly, staring somewhere over her shoulder. “Don’t know why I said that.”

She let the silence stretch just long enough to make him sweat a little more.

Then she smiled—small, but genuine. “Relax. It’s cute.”

That was it. 

He broke.

His blush, already coloring his cheeks, spread rapidly to his ears, which turned such an alarmingly vivid shade of red that she half-expected them to start glowing under the gallery lights. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then focused very intently on the crate in his arms as if it might provide some kind of escape hatch.

Mitzi just shook her head and moved to open the archive door for him again, her smile lingering as he followed, very carefully avoiding eye contact, as if that might save him.

They spent the rest of the hour tucked into the quiet corners of the archive room, shelving stray items and locking down display labels that had begun to curl in the damp press of summer humidity. The air was warm and still, thick with the soft smell of old paper, conservation glue, and time.

Mitzi worked steadily, sleeves pushed to her elbows, gloved hands moving with practiced care as she realigned catalog cards and dusted casing edges. But it didn’t take long for her to notice something else—something quieter.

Steven didn’t leave her side.

He kept pace with her through the narrow aisles of shelving and freestanding displays, always just a step behind or beside. Every time she reached for something overhead, he was there, ready to steady a box, pass her a mount, hover with just enough distance not to get in the way. When she moved toward a case latch, he handed her the tool before she could even ask for it.

It wasn’t annoying.

Oddly, it was… sweet.

Attentive, in a way that wasn’t performative. Just instinctive. Gentle.

And he was quieter now. The commentary had tapered off. No more nervous babbling, no flustered jokes. Just the soft rhythm of movement and the occasional exchange of words about the artifacts, spoken in low voices that seemed to suit the hush of the room.

At one point, while she knelt to straighten a drawer of linen tags, she glanced up and caught him watching her.

Not staring.

Just looking.

Like he hadn’t realized he was doing it. Like there was something about the way she moved—careful, focused, capable—that drew his attention without permission.

She said nothing.

And neither did he.

As they walked together down the rear corridor, past the closed Egyptian archive room, the overhead lights flickered once, then again, a softer, slower pulse.

Steven glanced up with a familiar furrow of his brow. “Dodgy wiring again. That light’s always going out.”

Mitzi nodded, folding her arms loosely. “Makes the hallway feel haunted.”

“I like haunted,” he said easily. Then, realizing how that sounded, he added, “Well, not really haunted. Not a poltergeist haunted. Just... spooky in a safe way. Like the past is still sort of breathing in the corners.”

She turned her head to look at him, one brow lifted. “That’s oddly poetic for someone who labels exhibits.”

“They’re not just objects,” He said, shrugging, not quite bashful. “Not to me.”

“I know.”

There was a pause. Not an awkward one—just long enough to feel like something more might settle into the space between them, if they let it.

He looked at her then, really looked. No distraction, no fidgeting, just the steadiness of someone who meant what they were about to say.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said quietly.

Mitzi blinked. “At the museum?”

“Yeah.” He hesitated. “And just... in general.”

Her breath caught, faint but undeniable.

Before she could reply, a breeze stirred behind her. Cool and faint, but unmistakable—a touch of air that carried no source. The kind that moved when no doors had opened. The kind she felt , not just on her skin, but in her bones.

She didn’t need to turn to know.

Nephthys was there.

Looming behind her like a shadow drawn long by candlelight, the goddess stood in silence, visible only to Mitzi. Her black linen robes drifted in a wind that wasn’t there. Kohl-ringed eyes fixed on Steven with quiet interest—not harsh, not possessive. Merely watching .

Assessing.

Mitzi kept walking.

Steven didn’t notice. He was rambling again now—something about storage protocols and the tragedy of misfiled faience beads. His voice, animated and warm, filled the corridor, smoothing over the charged hush that lingered in Nephthys’s wake.

Behind them, the goddess moved soundlessly, always a pace behind.

And then she spoke. Just once.

“He is loyal,” Nephthys said, voice low as dusk. “That one would follow you into a tomb.”

Mitzi didn’t answer. There wasn’t anything to say. She just looked down at her bandaged hand.The cut was already starting to heal. And for some reason, that made her heart ache a little.

Chapter Text

IT WAS A WEDNESDAY—NOT THAT Wednesdays meant much in the museum, where time folded strangely around centuries-old artifacts and forgotten names. Outside, the London drizzle had thickened into a steady, unhurried rhythm, painting the courtyard in streaks of gray and turning the stone paths slick beneath trembling branches. Inside, the air hung warm and still, untouched by the clockwork of ordinary life, as if the day itself had slipped quietly out of time.

Inside, the Egyptian wing was warm and dry, wrapped in its usual cocoon of silence and reverent lighting. The air smelled faintly of aged stone and polished wood, with just a trace of dust that never seemed to fully settle, no matter how often the exhibits were cleaned. 

Mitzi stood in front of a low display case, absently chewing the end of a pen as she made a note on her clipboard, her eyes narrowing at the glare bouncing off the protective glass. The lighting had shifted since the morning—too much reflection on the glass now. She’d have to file a request to adjust the angle. Again.

She let out a quiet sigh through her nose, scribbling a quick reminder to herself in the margin.

Behind her, a familiar voice rang out—clear, earnest, and just a little too loud for the room’s hush.

“I brought tea! And, uh, I didn’t drop it this time.”

She turned to see Steven hurrying across the floor, holding two paper cups like he was navigating land mines. His curls were damp from the rain, clinging to his forehead in defiant little spirals, and his jacket sat slightly crooked on his shoulders where he’d shrugged it on in a hurry—one collar half-turned, the zipper just a bit off-center. He gave her a sheepish, hopeful smile as he approached, careful not to spill the drinks or trip over the discreet lighting embedded in the floor.

Mitzi raised an eyebrow. “Not poisoned, I hope?”

Steven froze mid-step. “I—uh—I don’t think so? I mean, unless someone’s got it out for you at the museum café, which… would be weird. But, I mean, Tetley’s not exactly known for its subtle assassination attempts, are they?”

She took the tea with a smirk, her fingers brushing his for the briefest moment. “Shame. Would’ve added some excitement to the sarcophagus documentation.”

Steven let out a too-loud laugh, then immediately toned it down, eyes darting around the empty gallery. “Right? That’s—that’s how these things always start. Innocent curator. Mysterious beverage. Next thing you know—boom—mummy apocalypse.”

“Sounds like a marketing campaign.”

“See?” he said, brightening, but still fidgeting with the lid of his own cup. “You get it. I mean, not that we should really, uh, try to… provoke a mummy apocalypse.”

She sipped her tea, amused. “Relax, Steven. If the museum’s going to be cursed, I’d rather it start on a Wednesday.”

He chuckled, then added quickly, “Yeah. Low visitor numbers. Easier to evacuate.”

She raised an eyebrow again. “Always planning ahead, I see.”

He shrugged, one shoulder hitching awkwardly. “I-I try. It’s, um, part of my charm?”

“Is that what that is?”

Steven flushed slightly, then grinned. “One day, you’ll miss all this dazzling awkwardness when I’m tragically consumed by ancient forces beyond mortal comprehension.”

Mitzi paused for a second before she realized it was a joke—his delivery so earnest, it threw her off just long enough. “Sure,” she said dryly. “I’ll light a candle and file the health and safety report.”

Steven grinned, clearly proud of himself despite the faint flush creeping up his neck. “That's all I ask. A dignified form, maybe a eulogy. Something tasteful.”

Mitzi took a sip of her tea. “You’ll get the standard risk assessment and a mildly annoyed email from Facilities.”

“Touching,” he murmured, then glanced down at his shoes like he’d just remembered how they worked.

Mitzi gestured toward the bench beside the statue of Sekhmet. “Sit. You look like you sprinted here.”

Steven hesitated—just long enough for it to be noticeable. His eyes flicked to the bench, then to her, then back again like he needed permission a second time. Eventually, he lowered himself beside her, too close. Realizing it immediately, he shuffled an inch to the side, then another, until his cup sloshed and he froze mid-motion.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, staring at his tea like it had betrayed him. “I forgot how thin this bench was.”

Mitzi only raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She took a sip from her cup, masking the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Busy day?” she asked after a beat.

Steven let out a theatrical sigh. “Three kids were sick in the shop,” he said in anguish. “One after the other. Like they were in some sort of gross little relay race.”

Mitzi winced. “The school groups are back, then?”

“In waves,” he said grimly. “Like some kind of educational plague. I tried to explain what a canopic jar was, and one of them asked if ancient Egyptians were ‘into storing guts for fun.’”

Mitzi gave him a sideways look. “Weren’t they?”

Steven paused. “I mean… yeah, okay. Touché.”

They sipped in silence for a moment, the soundscape of the museum settling around them—the far-off creak of floorboards, the muffled click of someone’s heels two rooms away, the gentle hum of the overhead lights. Sekhmet towered beside them in eternal stillness, her stone eyes cast downward, as if eavesdropping on their quiet conversation.

Steven glanced sideways at Mitzi, then quickly turned away when she looked back. “So… that Osiris plaque debacle. Still keeping you up at night?”

Mitzi groaned. “You mean the one that misspelled ‘eternity’ as ‘eternitee’? Yes. Deeply. I think it rewired my brain.”

“Could’ve been worse,” he said with a shrug. “Could’ve been a gift shop spin-off. Eternitee: for the pharaoh who walks forever, but also wants cozy ankles. ”

Mitzi surprised him by laughing—short, real, not just polite. It echoed softly off the stone walls. She covered her mouth with her cup for a moment.

Steven looked pleased. Too pleased.

“I like making you laugh,” he said, then instantly looked as if he regretted the words. “I mean—not in a weird way. Just… It’s nice. You’re usually a bit intense. Not in a bad way. Just… laser-focused.”

“Part of the job,” she said smoothly, still smiling, but without really meeting his eyes.

“Right. Yeah. Of course,” Steven mumbled, looking down at the plastic lid of his tea like it might help him recover some dignity. “I wasn’t implying you’re not fun. You are. Fun. In a deeply competent way.”

“Fun via competence,” she couldn’t help but chuckle as she sipped her tea, the warmth of it settling between them for a moment. Then, her tone shifted—lighter, almost gentle. “Thanks for the tea, by the way.”

Steven glanced up at her, blinking like he hadn’t expected gratitude to come wrapped in actual softness. “You’re welcome.”

A small silence.

“I almost brought biscuits,” he blurted. “But I didn’t know if you… Eat biscuits. In public.”

Mitzi turned her head slowly, one eyebrow raised, lips twitching. “You think I secretly eat biscuits in private?”

“I—no—” He went pink. “I just—I wasn’t sure what kind you’d like. I panicked in Tesco. There were too many options and—somehow none of them felt right?”

Her smile deepened, amused but kind. “Next time, surprise me.”

Steven blinked at her, then broke into a lopsided grin, half proud, half stunned, as he’d just been knighted for surviving a minor social crisis. “Right,” he said. “Challenge accepted.”

They both turned their eyes to the Sekhmet statue again. The lion-headed goddess stood sentinel in her polished granite stillness, her feline gaze locked in perpetual disapproval. With her poised hands and lioness snarl, she looked as if she were moments away from delivering an ancient, withering critique—one that might start with “You dare” and end with a storm of divine retribution.

Steven squinted up at her, nose crinkling. “Does she always look like she’s about to lecture you?”

“She probably would,” Mitzi said. “But only if you deserved it.”

Steven blinked. “I always deserve it,” he muttered.

She turned just enough to catch the faint pink at the tips of his ears. “Well. At least you’re self-aware.”

He chuckled, but it was quieter now, almost reflexive. The kind of laugh that softened into something else as soon as it left his mouth. His fingers curled around his paper cup, absentmindedly tracing the rim. That same nervous habit she'd noticed before when he didn’t know what to do with his hands or his thoughts.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, voice a bit rougher now, edged with caution.

Mitzi set her tea down carefully on the bench between them. “Sure.”

He looked at the floor for a moment, as if trying to collect a question from the cracks between the tiles. Then, with a small shrug—like he knew it might sound silly—he said, “Why did you take this job?”

She raised a brow. “Tour guiding?”

“Well. Yeah. That. But… I mean this place. Here. The museum. You talk about it like it’s—” He hesitated again, rubbing at the back of his neck. “—like it’s more than just a job to you.”

Mitzi studied him. Not just his words, but the way he said them. He was trying, she realized—not just to understand her, but to connect with something in her he didn’t quite have the language for. He was drawing a line, gently, from himself to her, and waiting to see if she'd take the other end.

She looked away for a moment, toward the shadow Sekhmet cast on the tiled floor. “I guess,” she said slowly, “because I feel like I belong here. Like this place… sees me.”

Steven blinked. “Sees you?”

“Yeah.” She looked around at the painted coffins, the carved reliefs, the carefully lit cases of weathered amulets that glinted dully under the gallery lights. Her gaze lingered on the shabti figurines, still standing watch after thousands of years, faces worn smooth by time. “This place is full of things that were never meant to be forgotten. And I… understand that feeling. The need to be remembered.”

She didn’t say it dramatically. It wasn’t a confession or a cry for attention. Just a truth she carried with quiet weight, shared like an object placed gently on a table between them.

Steven was quiet for a long time. The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but delicate, like something fragile and true had just been said… and neither of them wanted to break it too quickly. The kind of silence that made even the faintest sounds seem louder—the soft buzz of the lights, the far-off rustle of another visitor, the shift of his sleeve as he rubbed his thumb over the lid of his teacup.

He didn’t know what to say, not really. He felt out of his depth—not in a bad way, but like someone who had suddenly realized they were standing at the edge of something deeper than they’d expected.

Then, softly—almost like he wasn’t sure she was meant to hear it—he said, “I think you’ll be remembered.”

Mitzi looked over at him slowly. His face was red. Not just a little flush—like, proper red, the kind that crept up from his neck and painted the tips of his ears. He looked like he wanted to disappear straight into the bench, maybe melt into the floor and re-emerge somewhere far less emotionally hazardous.

“You think so?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral. Not dismissive. Just… cautious.

Steven gave a small, nervous nod. He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers curling into the collar of his jacket. “Yeah. I mean, not just because you’re… You know.” He faltered, waved vaguely in her direction. “Smart. And cool. Which you are. But also, you just…”

He hesitated again, trying to catch the right words as if they were butterflies he didn’t want to crush in his hands. “You’ve got this way of talking about all this stuff—these artifacts, the stories, the history—like it matters. Not in an academic way. Not like a textbook.”

He glanced at her, then quickly away again. “Like it’s personal. Like it’s alive. And people… people remember that.”

Mitzi blinked. Her heart gave a small, startled flutter—not from the compliment itself, but from the way he said it. It was raw. Unearnest in the most genuine way. Steven wasn’t trying to win her over, or flatter her, or perform. He was just telling the truth as he saw it, fumbling and honest, and entirely without defense.

For a beat, she didn’t know what to say. She felt the echo of something vulnerable in herself stir, something she usually kept neatly tucked away behind quips and certainty and that quiet wall she didn’t let many people see past.

“Thanks,” she said, quieter than before. Her voice had lost its usual irony, its edges. “That… means more than you probably realize.”

They sat like that for a moment, still facing the statue, but no longer watching it. The silence between them had changed. It wasn’t the tentative kind anymore. It was warm. Close. Like they’d stumbled onto the edge of something that neither of them knew how to name yet.

Steven fidgeted with his cup, the cardboard growing slightly soft from his grip. He cleared his throat, then again when the first attempt failed him. 

“I should, uh,” he said, a little too brightly, “probably get back. There’s… a display of plush jackals I need to realign. Apparently one of them’s been decapitated.”

Mitzi let out a soft laugh. “Sounds brutal.”

He lingered at the edge of the room, shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure whether to go or stay.

 “Hey, um… if you ever want help with labeling,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “or like… artifact lifting… or just walking through the gallery again sometime… I could… be around.”

Mitzi turned slightly toward him, a smile tugging at her lips—wry, but not unkind.

 “You’re always around, Steven.”

He laughed—soft, a little sheepish, but genuine. “Right. Yeah. Well. Good to know it’s, uh… noticed.”

He gave her one last awkward nod and shuffled off, his usual half-tripped gait echoing lightly against the stone floor. Just before the corridor swallowed him, he glanced back—just once—and caught her watching him.

Mitzi didn’t look away. Not immediately.

When she finally turned, her gaze settled on the display case in front of her, her reflection ghosting across the glass. The flicker of torchlight from a carved wall relief made her image seem momentarily double—her and something else. Maybe something older.

Behind her, unseen by any human eye, Nephthys stood at the threshold where light met shadow. Arms crossed, head tilted, the goddess watched with an expression caught somewhere between affection and exasperation.

“He likes you,” Nephthys said, her voice low, threading the silence like a ribbon through water.

“I know,” Mitzi replied, without turning.

A pause. 

Then: “And you’re going to let him stumble around about it forever?”

Mitzi smirked faintly. “Maybe just a little longer.”

Nephthys arched a brow, dry and unimpressed. “Mortal courtship is tedious.”

Mitzi exhaled a soft laugh, the kind that didn’t need sound to be heard. “Not for us,” she said.

They watched in silence as Steven’s retreating form disappeared around the far corner. The rain, soft and steady, had returned, tapping gently at the museum’s high windows like fingers reminding the world it was still there.

“Besides,” Mitzi added, more quietly, “I like the quiet in between.”

Nephthys didn’t respond. But she didn’t vanish either. Her presence remained—a weightless certainty at Mitzi’s back, like the hush before a bell tolls or the breath before a truth is spoken.

And in that still moment, surrounded by the relics of ancient longing and half-remembered names, Mitzi felt what she always did when things settled just right: that she was exactly where she needed to be.

And, more importantly, she wasn’t alone.

Chapter Text

THE MUSEUM HAD GONE HUSH-QUIET again, that special sort of silence that only came after hours. The kind of stillness that settled not just over the halls, but into them, seeping into the marble seams and the spaces between display cases, soft and thick and oddly reverent. The last guests had been shepherded out half an hour ago, their departure marked by the slow shuffle of feet, the low murmur of thank-yous, and the distant clunk of the front doors locking shut. 

Somewhere below, security was patrolling the lower floors, their radios crackling faintly like insects behind walls, the sound filtered and distant, a familiar background murmur that barely registered anymore. 

Upstairs, the old lecture hall flickered with low, fading light from a projector that had clearly seen better decades. The glow it cast was uneven, yellowed around the edges, and faintly buzzing, as though the machine were exhaling its last effort to keep the past visible. Its fan rattled softly in protest, cycling air through its tired vents as it struggled to keep up with the demand. The room itself smelled faintly of dust, old carpet, and the metallic tang of equipment warmed too long by a bulb that had outlived its recommended usage.

Mitzi sat cross-legged near the back of the room with a clipboard in her lap, her boots tucked neatly beneath her, and one elbow resting against the armrest. She was still except for the occasional flick of her pen and the shifting of pages as she tried to keep pace with the presentation. 

On the screen, hieroglyphs drifted faintly across the surface like ghosts—blurry, sepia-toned scans of scroll fragments, each pausing for a beat too long before jumping to the next. The transitions lagged, uneven, and awkward, making the sequence feel haunted, as though time itself was stuttering. She squinted, trying to match the notes in her lap to the images on the wall, flipped another page, and let out a quiet, resigned sigh. Everything was out of sync.

“Uh… hi?”

She looked up.

Steven hovered in the doorway, framed by the dim hall light behind him, a little out of breath like he’d taken the stairs too fast and tried to walk it off before arriving. His curls were tousled—more than usual—and a few unruly strands clung to his forehead. His lanyard had worked its way half out of his shirt pocket, badge tilted sideways, as though even it wasn’t sure if he was officially on duty anymore.

He lingered there for a second, eyes adjusting to the gloom, expression a mix of curiosity and caution.

“Is this where the heroic curator’s stuck with ancient tech?” he asked, voice tentative, like he wasn’t quite sure if he was interrupting something or rescuing someone.

Mitzi exhaled through her nose, dry amusement tugging faintly at one corner of her mouth. She didn’t bother to stand. Instead, she made a vague gesture toward the old projector as it wheezed through another sluggish transition.

“The heroic curator is losing a battle to whatever this machine thinks a ‘frame advance’ is,” she said.

Steven chuckled quietly, a soft sound that didn’t quite fill the room. He took a few steps in, hesitating only slightly before committing to a slow, careful wander down the aisle toward her.

“Want a second pair of eyes?” he offered, hands half in his pockets, shoulders tilted in that usual, uncertain angle he wore when he didn’t want to presume.

Mitzi raised an eyebrow but didn’t look away from the flickering screen.

“I want a time machine and a better budget,” she said evenly. Then added, “But sure.”

She scooted over a few inches, making space beside her on the carpeted step. Steven took it.

The room smelled of dust and forgotten lectures.

A kind of dry, settling scent—old carpet warmed by the projector’s fan, mingling with the ghost of chalk and aging wood polish. Time layered in thin, invisible sheets.

Rows of creaky chairs curved around them in a broad crescent, empty and dim, their faded upholstery sagging from decades of use. The seat backs leaned at tired angles, some with permanent indentations from old coats or messenger bags.

Steven crouched beside the ancient machine, his knees popping audibly as he went down, muttering softly to himself as he examined the controls with the kind of cautious reverence usually reserved for museum artifacts.

“This thing’s practically vintage,” he murmured, brow furrowed as he squinted at the panel. “Probably ran on prayers and coffee.”

Mitzi smiled faintly from where she sat, the gesture small and dry.

“And maybe a little blood sacrifice,” she offered.

“Good thing I came prepared.”

He didn’t look up—just kept fiddling with the knobs, thumb brushing off a layer of dust, fingers turning dials with slow precision.

Then—

A spark of motion.

The screen snapped, fizzed briefly, a hiccup of static light, then cleared.

A clean, steady image appeared. The next slide: a fragment of The Book of the Dead papyrus, sharp and centered.

Mitzi blinked.

“…How did you—?”

Steven leaned back slightly on his heels, looking far too pleased with himself for someone crouched beside a temperamental hunk of plastic.

“Old habit,” he said, nonchalantly. “Used to do film club setups in school. All the projectors were about this temperamental.”

Mitzi turned her head slowly and stared at him, eyebrows raised in quiet appraisal.

Steven glanced at her, then raised both hands in an innocent shrug.

“What?” he asked, mock-wounded. “I contain multitudes.”

“You contain surprising multitudes.”

He flushed. Not dramatically—just a soft, creeping pink that started at his ears and spread faintly down his neck. He ducked his head, suddenly interested in the side of the projector again.

“Don’t tell the staff,” he muttered. “They’ll start making me fix everything.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she said, voice low with amusement.

They sat side by side after that, shoulders angled but not quite touching, watching the slides click slowly through their cycle.

The old projector made a soft mechanical clatter every few seconds, steady as breathing. Shadows flickered over their faces in pale succession—the painted eyes of Ra, the sleek curves of Anubis, a parade of funerary charms and ink-sketched goddesses drifting silently across the screen like fragments of a forgotten procession.

The light gave the room a golden haze, hazy at the edges, warm but slightly off-kilter—like a dream caught mid-flicker. A place unmoored from time.

“You ever felt like this place is alive?” Steven asked quietly.

His voice barely rose above the hum of the projector.

Mitzi turned slightly, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

“The museum?” she asked.

He nodded once, slowly. “Not, like, haunted. Just… watchful. Like it knows when you’re alone in it.”

She let the thought sit for a moment before answering, tilting her head as she considered it.

“I think the past likes to linger,” she said. “Especially in rooms like this.”

Steven’s gaze stayed on the screen. “Like it’s waiting,” he murmured. “Not scary. Just… watching to see what you’ll do.”

She looked back at the wall, at the papyrus fragment currently glowing softly in front of them.

“Sometimes I wonder if I was meant to end up here,” she said.

“You were,” he said.

No pause. No doubt. The words landed like a certainty.

Mitzi turned fully toward him this time, caught off-guard by the conviction in his tone.

He looked sheepish now, suddenly aware of how quickly he’d answered. His hand came up to scratch awkwardly behind his ear, eyes flicking downward.

“I mean,” he added, stumbling slightly, “I just think you… you fit here. Like you’ve always been part of it.”

Mitzi blinked. That wasn’t a thing people said to her. Not colleagues. Not friends. No one other than Marc. Maybe her sister.

She shook the thought off, brushing it aside with a tiny lift of her shoulders, as though physically dislodging the weight of it.

“Thanks,” she said at last, voice quieter than before. “That’s… nice of you.”

Steven gave a small, crooked smile in response—barely a lift at one corner of his mouth, shy but genuine.

“I don’t say things unless I mean them,” he replied, and though his tone was light, there was a quiet steadiness beneath it.

They didn’t speak after that.

The silence stretched—not awkward, just… present. Full in its own way.

They sat in it for a few long moments, side by side in the half-dark, the soft clicking of the projector the only sound. Rhythmic. Steady.

Then, just as a slide of Osiris began to shift into view, the power flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then out.

Darkness swallowed the room in a single breath.

Steven made a startled sound somewhere beside her—a quick intake of air and the faint rustle of fabric as he fumbled for something. “Oh. Okay. Um—where’s my torch…”

Mitzi didn’t move.

“Wait,” she said, her voice low. “Look.”

The projector hadn’t gone fully dark.

Somewhere in the depths of the old wiring, the emergency generator must have kicked in—just enough juice to keep the backup bulb alive. It wasn’t bright. Not really. But it glowed.

A pale cone of amber light, trembling faintly, still caught the edges of the papyrus on screen. The image shimmered, suspended in the gloom like a relic preserved in amber. Ghostly. Timeless.

“Creepy,” Steven whispered, almost involuntarily.

“Beautiful,” she said.

Neither of them moved.

They sat in the half-dark, wrapped in silence, the rows of empty seats around them vanishing into shadow. Only the ancient symbols remained—Osiris and his court of the dead—flickering faintly across the screen like half-remembered memories, conjured up from somewhere just out of reach.

Then Steven’s voice came again, quieter now. Hesitant.

“Can I ask you something?”

Mitzi didn’t turn her head. She kept her eyes on the screen, watching the way the light caught the contours of ink and age.

“You just did.”

He let out a small, nervous breath.

“Right. I mean—a proper something.”

She nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

“Go on, then.”

He fiddled with the hem of his sleeve, eyes fixed somewhere near his shoes. “Do you ever feel like you’re... not where you’re supposed to be?”

Now she turned toward him, slowly. “Sometimes,” she sighed. “You?”

He gave a lopsided shrug, not quite meeting her gaze. “I know it doesn’t look like it, but… I don’t always feel real.” He paused, chewing on the thought. “Like I’m just filling in for someone else. And they’re the one who actually belongs.”

Mitzi studied his face in the flickering dark. The shifting light from the projector carved gentle shadows along his jaw and cheekbones, softening and hardening them with every pulse.

There was no humor in his expression now.

Just the quiet truth of someone trying—really trying—to understand himself.

She felt something tighten low in her chest. She hoped that didn’t mean he was beginning to look for answers.

“I used to feel that way,” she said softly, almost to herself.

“You don’t anymore?” he asked, eyes lifting to hers.

“I don’t know.” She breathed out through her nose. “Maybe I just got tired of waiting for someone to come claim the space I was in.” A beat passed. “So I made it mine.”

He looked at her for a long time after that. Something in his expression shifted—gentled, opened.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, a little unsteady. “You really think I belong here?”

She didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. “Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

They didn’t speak much after that. Just let the rest of the slides cycle slowly through in silence, the images drifting across the screen like fragments of a half-remembered dream. The soft clicking of the projector filled the room, steady and patient, a metronome ticking off the quiet space between them. Painted gods flickered by—Osiris, Bastet, Thoth—all rendered in faint sepia, hovering at the edge of meaning. 

The golden light remained warm and diffuse, casting soft shadows across the empty rows of chairs, over the quiet curve of Mitzi’s shoulder, across the bend of Steven’s arm. There was no need for words now. The stillness between them was not empty—it was full, and mutual, and strangely easy.

When the last image faded and the machine gave its final sigh, Steven stood. He hesitated only a moment, stretching slightly as though shaking off a long pause, then extended his hand toward her—instinctive, unspoken, natural. There was no grandness in the gesture, no flourish. Just his hand, offered without ceremony.

Mitzi glanced at it, a flick of her eyes, then looked up at his face. There was no expectation there—only the quiet presence of someone who had simply decided to be kind. She reached up and took it.

His grip was warm. Steady. Certain in a way she hadn’t expected. She had braced for the familiar awkwardness, the quick let-go, the mumble of “sorry” under his breath—but that didn’t happen. Instead, he held her hand just a second longer than necessary. It wasn’t obvious. Not enough to call attention. But enough to register. Enough to make her feel it. Enough to wonder if he felt it, too. Then, just like that, he let go.

“I could walk you to the station,” he said, the offer light but genuine, a flicker of shyness threading the edge of his voice. There was no pressure in it. Just a possibility, extended like an open door.

Mitzi arched a brow, half a smirk playing at her lips. “Chivalry?”

He smiled, that same lopsided grin she was beginning to recognize. “Safety,” he said, then added after a small pause, “And maybe a little chivalry.”

They walked side by side down the museum steps, the city humming faintly in the distance. It was the hour when the world softened, when the sky deepened into velvet and the streets glowed orange at the edges. 

He kept a polite distance as they moved—just enough space to be respectful, to not intrude—but his presence felt steady beside her. 

His hands stayed tucked in his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched in the cool air, but his head tilted toward her whenever she spoke, as if he didn’t want to miss a word. He never leaned too close. Never made it heavy. It was easy. Companionable. Quiet.

When they reached the platform, he didn’t linger. Just gave her a small, quiet goodnight. No dramatic wave. No drawn-out goodbye. Just a glance, a soft smile, and a simple nod as the train pulled up with its usual shudder and sigh. And then he was gone, stepping back into the dark like a breath held too long and finally exhaled, disappearing into the night like a thought left unfinished.

Mitzi found a seat by the window and leaned her head gently against the cool glass as the train moved, the city slipping by in streaks of light and shadow. She didn’t expect to feel anything. She had told herself it was just another late night. Just another conversation. Just another walk.

But she did.

A faint warmth lingered just under her ribs, like the last touch of sunlight before dusk fades. Like something inside her had tilted—barely, but unmistakably. Something had shifted.

Something she didn’t have a name for yet.

Chapter Text

MITZI HAD DEVELOPED A RHYTHM in the museum: mornings in the Egyptian gallery, afternoons in the back office, evenings—if the halls were quiet enough—wandering among the exhibits with a notepad in hand, making notes she wouldn’t show anyone. Observations. Instincts. Things that didn’t fit in a logbook but mattered all the same. There was a calm to it. A ritual. Each part of the day had its purpose, its cadence. And she liked it that way. The consistency. The hush. The subtle, sacred weight of ancient things.

She liked the quiet. She liked the dust. And, increasingly, she liked it when Steven showed up.

He did that often now. Not in an overt way. Not loudly. But somehow, he was always there. She’d turn a corner and find him adjusting a display case with meticulous care, scribbling notes into his battered notebook, or squinting intently at some small detail only he seemed to notice. He didn’t intrude. He simply… appeared. Like part of the place. Like another artifact that had been there longer than anyone realized.

Like now.

She was perched on a low bench near the Sobek alcove, going over the new interpretive signage, when Steven appeared at the edge of her vision. No fanfare. No footsteps. Just presence.

And something was different.

He was walking with more confidence than usual. His shoulders were back, posture straighter than the usual half-hunched shuffle. It wasn’t arrogant. Not quite. But there was a kind of quiet assurance in his stride, like he had finally accepted some invisible role. Like he belonged here, and maybe always had.

“Afternoon, Mitzi,” he said, his voice smoother than normal. Almost… assured.

She looked up from her notes, mildly surprised. “Well. Someone slept well.”

He blinked, as if the comment caught him off guard. “Sorry—do I look too awake?”

She laughed, caught off guard by his phrasing. “No, just not used to you looking like you’re ready to lead a revolution.”

Steven tilted his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Would you follow me if I did?”

It took her a second to register the words. To realize he was flirting. Not in an overt way—it didn’t feel calculated. But the sentence hung in the air with unexpected weight, a little too bold for the Steven she’d come to know. It didn’t land like a joke. It landed like a dare.

Her smile came slowly. Curious. “That’s a big question.”

He opened his mouth as if he had a response ready, something clever or sincere or both. But then he blinked again. His gaze shifted, scanning the room like he’d forgotten where he was. The confidence slipped. Just like that. His shoulders sagged. His fingers twitched. And the familiar Steven—nervous, apologetic—returned.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “Don’t know what I’m saying sometimes.”

Mitzi watched him, more intrigued than concerned. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Fine. Just… brain static. Long day.”

She didn’t press. Instead, she handed him the pages in her lap. “Here. You can distract yourself by telling me everything I’ve done wrong with these.”

He took them with both hands, visibly relieved by the redirection. “Gladly,” he said, the smile returning. This one was smaller. Realer. Grateful.

They sat together on the floor by the display, shoulder to shoulder, cross-legged like kids at storytime. The cool stone beneath them pressed through the fabric of their trousers, grounding them in the quiet hush of the gallery. Overhead, the lighting shifted subtly as the sun moved across the sky beyond the high windows—bright gold softening gradually into a gentler, pale gray that settled like dusk inside the museum’s walls.

Steven held the note sheet delicately in his hands, the edges crinkled slightly where his thumbs rested. He read over the text aloud, his voice low and even, offering small comments here and there, pointing out minor historical inaccuracies or phrasing that could be more precise. 

Each correction came gently, almost apologetically, as if he didn’t want to undo her work but only to help shape it better. His voice grew steadier as he spoke, anchored by the ritual of it—the familiar rhythm of the job, the comfort of structure, of knowledge he could hold in his hands and turn over like a stone.

Mitzi listened, half-focused, half-watching. Not so much the words, but the way he relaxed into them. The way he trusted himself in these moments. And every so often, when the flow of speech paused and his gaze lifted from the page, she caught him looking at her again.

Not startled. Not nervous. Not with surprise this time.

But with something else entirely. With intent. With interest.

When they finished going through the notes, neither of them moved right away. They stayed there, seated cross-legged on the cool stone floor, longer than they needed to—longer than was strictly reasonable for two coworkers who had technically finished the task at hand. 

But neither of them seemed in any particular rush to stand. The air in the gallery felt hushed, thick with the kind of stillness that invited you to linger. Time didn’t exactly stop, but it loosened, stretched out around them, as if the museum itself was in no hurry to let them go. Warmth clung to the air like memory, quiet and unspoken.

Steven shifted slightly beside her, knees creaking faintly against the floor. “You ever feel like the air changes when no one’s around?” he asked, voice softer now like the weight of the place had tugged his thoughts inward.

Mitzi didn’t answer right away. She let the silence settle first, tasted it on her tongue like something familiar. Then she nodded, slowly. “Like something else is listening,” she murmured.

His gaze flicked to hers, the corners of his mouth tilting upward in recognition. “Exactly.”

He didn’t say more after that. There was no need to explain it further. The idea had already settled between them, unspoken but understood. And she could feel it, too—the hum beneath the quiet, that invisible thread weaving through the halls. The sense of something unseen. Of being watched not with menace, but with purpose. As if the past itself were holding its breath, waiting. 

𓂀

Later, as he walked her down the corridor toward the side staff exit, the museum’s usual echo had softened into a low hush, the kind that settled in after most of the lights had been dimmed. Their footsteps were quiet against the tiled floor, the kind of quiet that made every glance, every breath, feel just a little more noticeable. She caught him looking at her again—his eyes holding that same expression she’d seen earlier. Quiet. Wondering. Like he was trying to figure something out about her, like he was studying something delicate and important but hadn’t yet decided what to do with it.

And then he said it.

“You’re the kind of person who… stays in your head a lot, aren’t you?”

The words landed between them gently, almost idly, but with a weight that made her pause.

She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze. “Takes one to know one.”

He smiled at that. Not the sheepish, reflexive grin she usually got, but something a little warmer. More certain. “Yeah, but… I think I like the way yours works.”

She stopped walking.

So did he.

There was a second—just one—where the air between them held still. She turned fully toward him, brows raised. “What did you just say?”

Steven looked at her, caught mid-thought, like someone waking from a dream he hadn’t realized he was having. Blank confusion flickered over his face.

“I… said—I think I like the way you work? I mean your—your signage. The labels. Just—”

“Steven,” she said, narrowing her eyes, the edge of a smile playing at her lips. “That’s not what you said.”

His hand came up to rub the back of his neck, a familiar gesture. “Right. Sorry. I don’t always notice when I say… odd things.”

She let it go. Just like that. No teasing, no pushing. Not out loud, anyway.

But as he turned to leave, offering a brief, uncertain farewell, Mitzi found herself watching him more closely this time. Watching the shift—the subtle sway between the Steven she knew and that moment of unfiltered assurance that hadn’t felt like him at all. Or not only him.

And it made her remember something.

Nephthys’s voice, weeks ago. Calm. Inevitable. “He is more than one soul, child.”

She hadn’t known what to make of it then. The goddess spoke often in riddles, or truths that only made sense too late.

She wasn’t sure she understood it now, either. But something was stirring—low and slow, like the museum’s own breath rising with the evening chill.

Something was definitely in the air.

Chapter Text

THE MUSEUM WAS HALFWAY TO busy—caught in that strange, in-between stretch of the afternoon when the morning rush had long since faded but the evening crowd had yet to arrive. The halls were filled with soft footfalls, the gentle hush of voices bouncing lightly off high ceilings, and the occasional echo of a closing door or a child's laugh from another wing. Dust motes drifted lazily through the shafts of sunlight filtering in through the skylights, suspended like tiny relics in their own right.

Mitzi stood just outside the ancient Egypt wing, clipboard in hand, her pen tapping against the side in a slow, unconscious rhythm. Her eyes scanned the row of newly polished display cases that lined the hall, ticking off catalog numbers one by one. Papyrus fragments, alabaster jars, and ushabti figurines in neat, ordered rows. Every artifact was exactly where it should be—clean, labeled, and properly lit. The air still held that distinct museum scent: a mix of lemon oil, stone dust, and something older that clung to the edges of time.

She liked this part of the job—mundane, maybe, but meditative. A kind of quiet caretaking. The routine gave her something to anchor herself to, a gentle reverence in preserving what remained of the past. Every object held stories that would never be fully told. Still, she honored them with care, even if no one noticed but her.

No one human, at least.

Nephthys hovered nearby, silent for once. Her presence was less a shape and more a shift in the corner of Mitzi’s eye: the sweep of dark robes where no one stood, the faint rustle of fabric that stirred no air. She was a shadow threaded through light, never fully visible, but always unmistakably there. Watching. Waiting. Always.

Sometimes, Mitzi could almost feel the weight of the goddess's gaze, like chilled fingers at the nape of her neck or the brush of wind against her shoulder. Not intrusive, not unkind. Just constant.

Today, Nephthys said nothing. And that was unusual.

Mitzi paused, eyes narrowing slightly as she leaned closer to one of the glass cases, inspecting a slight smudge she hadn’t noticed before. She raised the sleeve of her cardigan and buffed it away with the edge of her cuff, satisfied when it vanished under the gentle pressure.

Then she reached for her pen again—but stopped halfway. 

Steven had entered the room.

She heard him before she saw him—the familiar rhythm of his steps echoing faintly against the stone floor. That half-shuffle, half-drag cadence she’d come to recognize over the last few weeks. There was always a gentle uncertainty to the way he moved, like he was never quite sure if he was allowed to take up space. Every doorway was an obstacle, every corridor a quiet question: Am I supposed to be here?

But this time, the rhythm was wrong.

It was faster. More decisive. The hesitation she was so used to was missing entirely—no lag, no pause at the threshold. Just footsteps, direct and unwavering, growing louder in a way that felt… off. Not just different. Wrong.

She turned, clipboard still in hand. 

It looked like Steven. Same tousled brown hair, a little too long around the ears. Same lean frame, slightly hunched from hours stooped over maps and catalog boxes. Same face, same pale eyes—wide and soft and often darting like they were trying not to meet anyone else’s. Same slouchy coat that was probably too warm for the day.

But the way he moved wasn’t his. There was no nervous energy. No sideways glance. No fumbled step or uncertain smile. He was walking straight toward her like a man with a destination. Like someone who knew exactly what he wanted, and how to get there. Like someone who didn’t doubt for even a second that he belonged.

And his eyes. They weren’t wide with uncertainty or kindness. They weren’t darting around the room or flicking to her and away again in awkward rhythm. They were locked onto her. Focused. Sharp. Hunting.

Mitzi’s breath caught.

For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Just watched as he crossed the polished floor, each step measured and certain. He didn’t glance at the cases or the artifacts. He didn’t nod to her like he usually did, sheepishly, like maybe he was interrupting something. He didn’t even slow down.

“Steven?” she asked slowly, lowering the clipboard until it hung uselessly at her side. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer. His hand came forward—not roughly, not with force, but with a strange, quiet urgency. His fingers curled around her forearm in a grip that was firm, purposeful, and too confident to be his. And then he pulled.

“Hey—what are you—Steven?” Mitzi hissed, her voice low, half-whispered in case any of the docents were nearby. 

She stumbled a step, trying not to trip over her own boots, her free hand still clutching the clipboard awkwardly. She twisted in his grip just enough to glance back, eyebrows drawn in tight confusion.

“Where are we going?”

Still, he said nothing.

He moved quickly, steering her past the break room with its always-humming fridge and half-finished crossword puzzle on the table, and deeper into the staff corridors, where the air changed, where the sounds of the museum began to fade. The familiar became unfamiliar. The hum of public space gave way to the quiet echo of service halls and neglected corners.

The supply closet.

Steven pushed open the door with unsettling ease, like he’d known exactly where it was and how it worked. There was no hesitation, no fumbling with the handle, no sideways glance to check if they were being watched. Just a smooth, confident push—the kind that spoke of familiarity, not discovery. He guided her in without a word. Not roughly, but with a steady insistence that allowed no room for question. His hand on her arm was still firm, still urgent, and as soon as they crossed the threshold, he released her—but only just.

The space was narrow and dim, lit only by the faintest sliver of light from the crack at the bottom of the door. The air inside was stale with disuse, heavy with the scent of forgotten supplies: paper, old paint, a trace of something metallic. She barely had time to turn before he stepped in behind her and, with a soft, deliberate click , locked the door.

The sound was quiet, but final. It wasn’t until he spoke that she realized it wasn’t Steven at all.

“We’ve got a problem,” Marc said, his voice low and clipped, the sharp edge of his distinctly American accent cutting through the quiet like a knife—urgent and impossible to ignore.

Mitzi didn’t turn right away. Instead, she folded her arms tightly across her chest, bracing herself as though steeling against a blow she already knew was coming. 

The air between them thickened with unspoken tension. “Oh, hi, Marc,” she said flatly, voice dry enough to crack like brittle ice. “Lovely of you to drop in.”

His mouth twitched—half a smirk, half a flinch—as if her sarcasm had grazed something raw and tender beneath his skin, exposing a flicker of vulnerability he rarely let show. “This isn’t a social call,” he said, voice tight, no room for jokes.

“No kidding.” She finally glanced over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing with a mix of skepticism and tired irritation. “You show up mid-shift sounding like Batman, and I’m supposed to what—offer you tea?”

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

“I am,” Mitzi said with a bitter little laugh, the sound sharp and sardonic, echoing her disbelief. “I’m just multitasking. You know—concern and irritation. It’s a gift.” She took a deliberate step closer, lowering her voice to something almost conspiratorial.

Marc’s jaw flexed tightly, muscles visibly working. “I tried earlier,” he muttered, almost under his breath. “It didn’t work. He was too close to the surface.”

“And now he’s… what, napping?” Mitzi arched a brow, dry and unimpressed.

“He’s asking questions.” Marc’s tone grew colder, harder. “About the blackouts.”

Mitzi couldn’t help but snort, the sound abrupt and full of disbelief. “God forbid the sweet one starts using critical thinking.”

“He’s trying to track them,” Marc repeated, voice hardening with each word.

“Yes, Marc, that’s what people do when they think they might be losing their minds,” she said, voice dripping with dark humor. “You remember what that’s like, right?”

His jaw clenched tighter, knuckles whitening visibly. “It’s dangerous.”

“What, like you?” she said, voice syrupy sweet but laced with venom sharp enough to sting.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, a hiss edged with frustration. “Khonshu wants him neutralized.”

Mitzi’s brows shot up, eyes wide in mock surprise. “Neutralized?” she echoed. “That’s lovely vocabulary. Very UN-suspicious.”

“I need you to distract him,” Marc said, tone blunt, no wiggle room.

She blinked, caught off guard. “With what, interpretive dance?”

Marc hesitated, the moment stretching thin. Then, too fast, too blunt: “With you.”

She stared at him, flat, unblinking. Waiting for the punchline.

“Take him out.”

“Out?”

“Like… on a date.”

A silence stretched between them—thick, heavy, almost tangible—so dense it seemed to press relentlessly against their eardrums, filling the space with an unbearable stillness.

Then Mitzi laughed—sharp, bitter, disbelieving, breaking the tension like glass shattering on stone. “Oh, sure! Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll just go date your other personality,” she sighed with amusement. “Should I wear something low-cut and bring a decoy engagement ring for when things get weird?”

Marc didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. “It’s strategic.”

“It’s deranged,” Mitzi snapped back, voice rising slightly with incredulity. “What next? You want me to marry him in Vegas so he stops asking Khonshu-sized questions?” she all but hissed.

“He likes you,” Marc said evenly. “He trusts you,” he added after a pause. “If he’s focused on you, he’s not digging.”

Mitzi threw up her hands, half-exasperated, half-amused. “Congratulations, Marc! You’ve officially weaponized my charm. Truly a marriage milestone.”

His voice was flat, resigned. “You’re the one who flirted with him first.”

She barked a laugh—dry, incredulous. “Oh, please. Every man on Earth thinks he’s being flirted with if a woman smiles at him without holding pepper spray,” she all but scoffed. “I was being nice.”

“Nice,” Marc echoed, voice thick with mock disbelief. “Sure. That’s what that was,” he huffed.

Her eyes narrowed in mock suspicion, playful but pointed. “What, are you jealous now?”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Really? Because you’re standing like you want to throw Steven into a volcano and reclaim your ‘emotional territory.’”

He crossed his arms, lips pressed in a tight line. “I’m standing like someone whose wife is dangerously good at charming people she shouldn’t.”

“And I married someone with impulse control issues and an ancient god in his skull,” she shot back, voice dry. “Let’s not act like either of us made boring choices.”

Marc rubbed his temples, weary. “Just… one date. Keep him busy. Keep him safe.”

“You realize how deeply weird that sentence is, right?”

“It’s not permanent.”

“Well, if it’s temporary, that makes it fine,” she snorted, amusement flickering in her voice. “I’ll go wine and dine your alter and try not to develop feelings,” her eyes rolled, dripping with sarcasm. “Totally healthy.”

Marc’s eyes darkened, voice low and warning. “You better not develop feelings.”

Mitzi gave him a long, dangerously calm look. “He’s sweet. He’s respectful. He opens doors,” she listed, voice steady and cool. “And he doesn’t start world-ending missions without a heads-up.”

“He’s literally me.”

“He’s you, with a customer service voice and a better attitude. Maybe take notes.”

Marc opened his mouth, then closed it. Opened it again, searching for a comeback, but found none.

“I serve the goddess of mourning,” she said coolly, voice dripping with challenge. “Let me have something fun.”

Marc let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a prayer, exasperated. “You’re impossible.”

“And you are the one asking your wife to flirt with your own alter so your god doesn’t throw a tantrum,” she shot back with a smirk. “So maybe we’re both a little impossible.”

He huffed, dragging a hand down his face in frustration. “So… you’ll do it?”

“One date,” she agreed firmly. “No promises. No second act. Just popcorn and a personality crisis.”

“Good.”

“And you’re making dinner tonight,” she added with a teasing smile. “No cheating with takeaway. I want chopping. Heat. Effort.”

“Fine.”

She smirked, eyes sparkling with mischief. “And maybe light a candle. Play some jazz,” she joked, voice playful. “Remind me why I picked the brooding one in the first place.”

Marc’s gaze darkened instantly, shadowed with something sharp and dangerous—an edge of jealousy flickering like wildfire just beneath the surface. Without hesitation, he moved with sudden, almost brutal intent. One hand slammed firmly against the shelf beside her, anchoring himself, while the other curled possessively around her waist, pulling her in close—too close, like he was terrified she might slip through his fingers if he let go.

The kiss crashed down between them, fierce and unyielding, a storm that left no room for doubt. It wasn’t just hunger or desire—it was a claim, a warning wrapped in raw, desperate need. His teeth grazed hers in a sharp, almost aggressive nibble, a silent protest against the thought of sharing her attention with anyone else. Jealousy burned beneath every press of his lips, thick and tangled with a desperate urgency.

Mitzi met him with equal fire, but she could feel the weight of his possessiveness like a tangible force pressing against her skin. Her fingers clenched the fabric of his shirt, her teeth catching his bottom lip harder this time—an echo of the tension between them, a challenge and an invitation all at once—before they reluctantly pulled apart.

She broke it with a low, teasing voice, edged with breathless defiance.  “Not jealous, huh?”

His jaw clenched, eyes bright and sharp like flint struck on stone.  “I’m not.”

“You’re fuming.”

“I’m fine.”

“Full of it.”

His forehead pressed hard against hers, every breath rough and raw—as if they shared something fragile and fierce in that moment. “I just… missed you.”

Her defenses softened for a flicker, recognizing the storm beneath his restraint. “I know,” she whispered. “I missed you, too.”

For a fleeting second, everything else—Khonshu, the mission—faded into the background, leaving only this: the two of them, tangled in the quiet heat of a moment that felt theirs alone.

Then Mitzi stepped back, meeting his eyes. “Give him back gently.”

Marc nodded. When he closed his eyes, the tension drained from his shoulders. His body slumped slightly, as if something invisible had released its grip. The softness returned. His mouth twitched with a hint of confusion, and when he opened his eyes again, they were wide with startled concern.

“Mitzi?” Steven blinked. “Wh—? What just happened? Why are we in here?”

She blinked at him, expression schooled to neutrality. “You grabbed me,” she said calmly. “I thought you were going to faint,” she lied. “You looked pale.”

Steven flushed, the color rushing to his face like a startled tide.  “Oh—no! I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I don’t remember—bloody hell, I’m so sorry—”

“Hey,” Mitzi said softly, placing a steadying hand on his arm. Her voice was calm, controlled—anchored in something deeper than the moment. “It’s okay. No harm done.”

He nodded too quickly, eyes flickering anywhere but hers. Still flustered. Still trying to piece together the why and how of it all.  “Right. Um. Well. I guess I’ll just—”

“Steven?” she said before he could turn away.

He paused, hand halfway to the doorframe.

She hesitated—just a beat. Maybe two.

Her mouth opened slightly, the air shifting as if a truth might spill out—but whatever it was caught on the edge of her breath and never formed. The weight behind her eyes dimmed, shuttered again behind the careful expression she wore like armor.

Instead, she offered a soft smile—gentle, grounding, genuine. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

Steven blinked, surprised. Maybe even a little disarmed. “Oh. Yeah. Thanks. I—I mean, I feel alright. Just… dizzy for a second there, I guess.”

She nodded, her hand falling back to her side. “Still. Take it easy, okay?”

“Right. Will do.” He gave her a small, awkward grin—crooked and boyish, nervous energy curling at the edges—then turned to go. He shuffled down the corridor, shoulders slightly hunched, still visibly pink, still replaying the moment in his head.

Mitzi waited a few seconds before moving.

She stepped out of the supply closet, letting the heavy door fall shut behind her with a soft click. The hallway stretched quietly in either direction, lit only by the gentle buzz of fluorescent overheads and the faint echo of Steven’s retreating footsteps.

Nephthys drifted close behind her, her presence less a shadow and more a weight—an inevitability in the air. “You had your opening,” the goddess murmured beside her, voice smooth and low, threaded with curiosity and reproach.

Mitzi didn’t respond.

She kept walking, stride steady, expression unreadable, eyes fixed straight ahead—as if she hadn’t heard. As if she hadn’t felt anything at all.

Chapter Text

THE MUSEUM ALWAYS FELT A LITTLE off before opening hours—too quiet, too still, as though the exhibits themselves hadn’t quite woken up. Morning light filtered through the skylights in soft angles, scattering across the stone floors and turning every shadow into something ancient. Mitzi liked it best this way. When the hush felt sacred, undisturbed by footsteps or chatter, the silence was almost reverent. It made her feel like she belonged to another time, slipping quietly through history before the world rushed in again.

That quiet broke with a faint clatter from the gift shop. She glanced over to find Steven behind the counter, half-submerged in a box of individually wrapped sweets, brows furrowed in intense concentration. He was clearly trying to stack a small, brightly colored pyramid of gummy scarabs. Unsuccessfully. The little confections kept sliding off each other with cheerful disobedience, bouncing across the countertop like they had minds of their own.

She smirked and wandered over, leaning casually on the glass case as he looked up, startled. “Good morning, Pharaoh of Sugar,” she said, amused. “How goes the noble trade in ancient candy?”

Steven blinked as if reentering reality from some gummy-laden trance. “Oh—uh—slow,” he admitted sheepishly, hands frozen mid-stack. “I don’t think the Egyptians actually ate anything this color.”

She picked up a package and turned it over in mock inspection, the bright artificial blue and red scarabs glinting beneath the wrapper. “Probably not,” she said. “They had dates. Figs. Honey cakes.”

“And beer,” he added, straightening up, like he’d suddenly remembered he had a spine. “Made from barley. Thick stuff. You could practically chew it.”

“Mmm,” she said, fighting a smile. “Breakfast of champions.”

He grinned, the edges of his uncertainty softening just enough to let something real through. It was subtle but visible—the small ease in his shoulders, the way he stood a little taller despite looking like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his limbs. There was a kind of charm in it. That rare, unassuming honesty.

Mitzi’s eyes drifted briefly toward the gallery entrance, then back to Steven. She hesitated, her fingers tapping lightly against the glass counter, not quite a rhythm but close. “So,” she said, aiming for nonchalant. “We still on for tomorrow? Seven?”

Steven blinked again, confusion momentarily stealing across his features. “Tomorrow? Seven?” he repeated like the word had arrived without a map.

She arched a brow at him, her lips twitching with subtle amusement. “Best steak in town,” she said, casually, making it sound like a quote—as if he’d said it himself, like they were simply continuing a conversation they’d both agreed on. A gentle tease, veiled in familiarity, nudging him into remembering something he hadn’t actually promised.

There was a pause—a long, quiet stretch where he looked like someone trying to synchronize overlapping versions of reality. His mouth opened, then closed. “Right,” he said finally, gathering himself. “Yes. Absolutely. Seven. Got it.”

Mitzi smiled, trying not to let the knot of nerves twist any tighter in her stomach. “Good.”

She turned and walked a few steps toward the gallery, adjusting the strap of her bag with one hand, aware of the weight of his gaze still lingering on her back. Then, quietly, with that same mix of earnestness and uncertainty that had characterized so many of their conversations, he called after her.

“Wait… are you asking me out?”

She stopped. Mid-step.

Slowly, she turned just enough to look at him. His expression was open and vulnerable in a way that made her chest ache—like he hadn’t expected to ask the question, like the answer mattered more than he was ready to admit.

She forced a light chuckle, lifting a hand in a dismissive wave as if brushing off a silly joke. “You’re funny, Steven,” she said, and the words tasted wrong.

He smiled, but it was thin. Hesitant. The brightness in his eyes dimmed a little, but he didn’t press.

Mitzi kept walking, past the front desk and into the corridor that led toward the museum’s main hall. The air changed there—cooler, stiller, the hush of early morning pressing in with quiet insistence. It was the kind of silence that wrapped around the bones of the building and whispered truths too soft for most ears. 

She felt it settle against her skin like a knowing. Like it understood she was leaving something behind. Or maybe running from it. Her footsteps echoed faintly on the polished stone floor, but she didn’t rush. She couldn’t. Not with the knot in her chest pulling tighter.

Only when she turned the corner and the gift shop disappeared from view did her stride finally slow. Her hand came up, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair back from her face, though the gesture felt more like a shield than a fix. She exhaled through her nose, quietly, trying to will the strange ache in her ribs into something she could name. Something she could set aside.

Behind her, barely audible, came the soft jingle of the gift shop till. She imagined Steven still standing there, brow furrowed, looking down at his failed pyramid of candy scarabs like it might offer some answer. Wondering what had just happened. Replaying the moment in his mind with that same intensity he brought to ancient scrolls and forgotten glyphs. Trying to decode her.

You’re funny, Steven.

It had been the safest thing she could think to say. Something light. Dismissive. A joke to deflect a truth neither of them had fully spoken. And it had landed like a stone thrown into still water—rippling out, but sinking fast.

Nephthys stood waiting for her in the long shadow of a marble column—tall and motionless, half a presence, half a sculpture carved from dusk and memory. The goddess’s eyes followed her as she approached, dark and unreadable, the weight of time behind them. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft but edged with something sharper than disappointment.

“You could have just asked him,” Nephthys said, her tone mild, almost conversational. “Instead of making him feel confused.”

Mitzi stopped walking. The words hit harder than she expected, not because they were cruel, but because they were true. She didn’t try to argue. “I know.”

Nephthys tilted her head, her gaze never wavering. “He would have said yes.”

“I know,” Mitzi said again, quieter this time. Her voice caught at the edges, tugged down by guilt that had already begun to coil tight beneath her ribs. “I didn’t mean to mess with his head. I just…” She trailed off, words thinning out into breath. “I feel bad.”

There was no response. Just the silence of the hall, the soft dust-hung stillness of a place used to containing grief, memory, gods. Nephthys didn’t need to say anything more—her presence alone was judgment enough, and yet not unkind. Merely eternal. Patient in a way only the divine could be.

“I’ll make it right,” Mitzi murmured at last, eyes fixed on the far wall, the shadows stretching long across the stone. “After tomorrow. I’ll figure out how.”

“Good,” Nephthys said simply.

Then she turned, stepping into the shadow beside the column, and was gone, folded into the hush of the museum as easily as breath exhaled into still air.

𓂀

The shift had ended hours ago, but Mitzi didn’t go home.

Instead, she found herself in the courtyard in front of the museum, tucked beneath the shelter of the stone eaves where rain dripped steadily from the overhang above. The world was quiet here, softened by mist and the rhythmic patter of water hitting the pavement. Long, wet shadows stretched across the slick paving stones, fractured by the occasional ripple of a puddle disturbed by a falling drop. 

She sat on a damp bench, uncaring of the chill that seeped through the fabric of her coat or the dampness gathering at the hems of her sleeves. The air smelled of rain and stone and something ancient, something resting just beneath the surface.

A tiny flood of rainwater swirled in hesitant spirals around the clogged drain at her feet. She watched it absently, as if the motion might offer answers the day had not. She didn’t shiver, but the stillness in her body was the kind that came after too much thinking. Her hair had frizzed in the mist, loose strands curling at her temples and the nape of her neck. She didn’t smooth them back.

Now and then, someone passed behind the frosted glass of the back corridor window—blurred outlines, museum staff finishing their shift, coats slung over arms, footsteps fading. Lights flicked on briefly, then off again, swallowed by the closing hush of evening. The museum, like a living thing, was slowly exhaling the last of its breath for the day.

She should have felt clever. Should have felt in control. That had been the point, wasn’t it? Playing the part. Pulling the strings. Keeping Steven from figuring out how much she wasn’t telling him.

But instead, she felt layered. Folded in on herself like paper, too many times creased. Guilt sat heavy beneath her sternum, frustration curled hot and bright in her ribs, and under all of it, an ache she couldn’t name easily anymore. The kind that came when she thought of Marc.

Marc, who had asked her to do this.

Marc, who always seemed to know what was best for both of them, even when she didn’t.

Marc, who hadn’t been the one sitting across from Steven today, watched his face shift into something soft and hopeful.

She closed her eyes. The rain tapped gently against her cheeks, dampening her lashes until everything felt blurred—vision, memory, intention.

You could have just asked him, Nephthys had said.

And maybe… maybe she would have. If it had been her choice to begin with.

The rain filled the silence like breath, like static, like something alive. But then it was broken—softly—by the creak of the back door opening. She didn’t look. Just listened. Footsteps echoed lightly against the stone path, hesitant at first, then more certain. Slower. Closer.

She didn’t open her eyes until she felt it: a shift in the air, a break in the rainfall overhead. She blinked up into a space that had become suddenly dry—and saw an umbrella.

Steven.

He stood just to her left, one arm extended in an awkward but steady reach, holding the umbrella above her head. His hoodie was already soaked at the cuffs, the fabric clinging slightly at the shoulders. Damp curls clung to his forehead, and a drop of rain slid down the edge of his jaw.

He wasn’t smiling. Just watching her.

His expression was soft, concerned, and unsure in that Steven way—as if the act of showing up might have been a misstep, but he’d done it anyway. 

“You’re getting soaked,” he said, his voice gentle.

She gave a slow blink. “I was already soaked,” she murmured, not moving.

He nodded, clearly unsure what to say next. “Right. Well… now you’re… less soaked.”

A short, involuntary huff of laughter slipped out of her. Small, but real. The kind of sound that made a moment tilt ever so slightly toward comfort.

They stood like that for a long minute—Steven still holding the umbrella, not looking away, and Mitzi half-turned toward him, still seated, still damp, still struggling to sort out the mess in her chest. Rain curled around them, falling on either side, but not between. The umbrella created a kind of pocket—a shelter from the rest of the world. Fragile. Strange. Safe.

Steven shifted his weight, the silence stretching just enough to make his nerves show again. “Um…” he began, “I don’t mean to pry, but… was I supposed to ask you out?”

Mitzi turned her head fully then, brow knit in confusion. “What?”

He flushed. His hands tightened slightly around the umbrella handle, knuckles white. “It’s just—earlier you said something about tomorrow at seven, and… back in the storage closet the other day, I thought maybe I’d said something? But I don’t remember saying anything, which is probably worse, isn’t it? I was just… wondering if I had, and forgot.”

His eyes held hers, uncertain and completely open, like he had nothing to shield himself with except the truth.

And Mitzi felt something twist in her chest. Not guilt this time—something more fragile than that. A kind of sorrow. A kind of knowing. She could have told him the truth. Could have laughed it off, set him gently straight, explained that no, he hadn’t asked her out, and this wasn’t a real date, and that none of this was simple. Could have spared him the confusion. The hope.

But instead, she looked at him—this sweet, steady, complicated man who saw more than he realized—and gave him the softest smile she could manage.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “You did. In the closet. You don’t remember?”

Steven blinked, mouth parting slightly in surprise. “I—no, I guess I don’t, but… wow. Um. Okay.”

He stood there in the rain, stunned, but quietly pleased. His brows lifted just a little, the corner of his mouth twitching in the ghost of a smile. It was as if someone had just handed him a puzzle piece he hadn’t even known was missing. And for a moment, he looked lighter.

And that, somehow, made it worse.

Mitzi shifted on the bench, her fingers twisting together in her lap. The weight of the umbrella above her was warm in a strange, human way—familiar and undeserved. Kind. Too kind. It settled around her like a soft mistake, and for a second, she hated how grateful she felt for it.

She glanced up at him again, her voice lower now, almost tentative. “We don’t have to go. If you don’t want to.”

Steven’s response came in a rush.

“No!” he blurted—too loud, too sudden, like the idea itself was offensive. “I mean—uh—no, I do. Want to. I… want to.”

His eyes widened as if surprised by how quickly the words had come out—startled by the force of his own honesty. Then he recovered, his tone softening, settling into something gentler. “I mean… I’d like to.”

A long beat passed.

Rain hissed against the paving stones. The wind tugged faintly at the edges of the umbrella, but it held.

“I’d really like to,” he said again, quieter this time, but no less sincere.

Mitzi swallowed. She didn’t answer right away. The moment hovered between them, delicate and strange. There was something about the way he looked at her—like he didn’t quite believe this was real, like he was trying not to hope too hard in case it slipped through his fingers. He reminded her of a candle flickering in a breeze, thin and persistent, trying to stay lit.

She gave him a small smile. It was all she could manage. “Okay then. Tomorrow at seven.”

He nodded, his throat bobbing as though he were trying not to grin too much. “Right. Tomorrow.”

Then—after a short pause, so full of effort it was almost endearing—he added, “Should I… wear something museum-y? Or just… like, normal clothes? Because I can do either. Both. I’ve got a tie with little Anubises on it, but also, like, jeans.”

That finally made her laugh—an actual laugh, small but real, and warmer than the chill in her chest had been all day. “Normal’s good, Steven.”

He nodded again, this time with a flicker of confidence. “Right. Normal. I can do normal.”

They lingered for a while longer in their tiny patch of dry. The rest of the courtyard blurred with rain, but under the umbrella, it was a moment outside of time—just them, suspended.

Eventually, she stood, brushing off her coat with slow, deliberate movements. Steven shifted back to give her space, careful not to bump her, not to intrude—but he kept the umbrella overhead until she stepped a few feet out into the drizzle.

She turned back once, just before crossing the threshold back into the museum’s quiet belly.

Steven was still standing there, under the gray sky. The umbrella hung limp at his side now, forgotten, and his hoodie had already begun to soak through, clinging to the curve of his shoulders and the back of his neck. But he didn’t seem to notice.

He looked like someone who’d just been handed the stars and didn’t know what to do with them.

And Mitzi—Mitzi felt like the thief who’d stolen them first, only to give them back too late.

Chapter Text

THE LAST MAN HIT THE GROUND with a grunt, sprawled awkwardly on the thawing earth, limbs askew like a discarded marionette. Mariam stood over him, chest heaving with each breath, her fists still clenched tight at her sides. Her knuckles stung, hot and raw from impact. Blood—his, not hers—had splattered in bright, brutal drops across the wildflowers and gravel at her feet, staining the petals and speckling the ground. The air hung thick with the scent of sweat, iron, and crushed moss, sharp and feral in her lungs.

A breeze stirred faintly through the narrow mountain pass, warm and edged with altitude, carrying birdsong and the faint, hollow clamor of bells drifting up from the village far below. The world had gone quiet again. But there was no time to savor the stillness.

She turned sharply toward the ridge.

Marc had gone on ahead—up that narrow, winding path beyond the weather-worn shrine, where the craggy land rose steeply like the spine of some buried beast, curving upward into a jagged knife-edge that cut toward the cliff. Her heart slammed against her ribs, the beat frantic and loud in her ears.

“Marc!” she shouted, her voice echoing harshly as she broke into motion.

Her boots struck hard against the dry, uneven earth, thudding over loose gravel and dust as she forced herself into a full sprint. The path twisted sharply between pale boulders and hardy tufts of green, little alpine flowers bending beneath her weight. Somewhere off to her left, a goat bleated—sharp, startled—then silence again.

She crested the rise with her breath ragged in her throat, lungs burning, the muscles in her arms still singing from the fight, taut and electric.

And there—there he was.

Marc stood near the overlook’s edge, unmoving, a solitary figure against the blue sweep of sky. Below him, the village unfurled in miniature—a scatter of peaked rooftops and curling smoke, narrow roads winding through the valley like ribbon. The wind tugged at the hem of his jacket, fluttering the fabric. He didn’t move.

“Marc?” she called again, louder now, her voice thinned with relief—and something else. Something she didn’t name.

He turned. And everything inside her dropped out. Same clothes. Same unruly curls. Same familiar slope of the jaw. But It wasn’t Marc. It was Steven. 

His eyes locked onto hers, wide and disoriented, bewilderment swimming just beneath the surface. She saw it instantly—that soft, skittish panic that always seemed to shimmer beneath his skin. He looked around as though the air itself had shifted, blinking rapidly against the breeze, like a man shaken awake in the wrong dream.

“Mitzi?” he said, the word thin, cracking, caught on the wind. “What—what’s happening? Where am I?”

She stopped short, boots sliding on a patch of stubborn ice, her breath catching in her throat.

“No, no, no…” she whispered, every part of her going still.

It wasn’t supposed to be Steven.

Not here. Not now.

“Go back to sleep, worm.”

The voice echoed—deep, ancient, vibrating in the very stone beneath their feet. It wasn’t just a sound, it was a presence. Like being shouted at through a cathedral made of bones, the syllables reverberated in Steven’s ribcage, shaking something older than fear lose inside him.

Steven flinched so hard he nearly lost his footing on the slope. “Hello?” he called, his voice wobbling. He spun in a full circle, eyes sweeping across the jagged ridge. Nothing. Just mist, cliffs, and that skeletal building looming above.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” the voice came again, full of contempt. It had weight—like it was being dropped from a great height, crushing the space between his ears.

“Yep,” Steven said quickly, nodding, his voice an octave too high. “I completely agree with you, mate. Absolutely not supposed to be here, one hundred percent.” His fingers curled and uncurled nervously at his sides.

“Steven…” Mitzi stepped forward, her voice low and steady, but something quivered underneath it. “Listen to me, okay?”

“Surrender the body to Marc,” the voice boomed again. The command rang like thunder, ancient and unquestionable.

Steven blinked. “Sorry—what?” He turned toward her, his face twisting. “‘The body’? What do you mean, ‘surrender’? That’s not normal language, that! That’s—this is—what is this?”

“Oh, great,” Khonshu growled, and now Steven could feel it—a pressure, cold and skeletal, lingering just outside the edge of his vision. “The idiot’s in the control.”

“You’re scaring the boy,” came another voice—quieter, cooler, like silk on a blade. Nephthys. Her tone held no panic, only sharp disapproval. “He doesn’t understand.”

“He’s in the way,” Khonshu hissed.

Mitzi's stomach dropped as she saw him reach for his coat pocket. Her breath caught. “Steven, don’t—” she started, but her voice hit the air too late.

He drew it out. The scarab.

Golden. Gleaming. Its surface pulsed with divine heat, as if alive, as if breathing. The artifact trembled in his palm like it could sense the gods watching. He held it up, oblivious, cradling it like it was some lucky trinket from the gift shop.

“O-kay,” Mitzi said, her tone shifting—gentle but urgent. She edged closer, hands up like she was approaching a cornered animal. “Why don’t we just—just hand me that, yeah?”

But Steven had already turned. His head whipped toward the ruined building above, his eyes catching something she couldn’t see.

“Oh!” he brightened. “People!” He waved, his voice full of misplaced hope.

“No—Steven, no —get down!” Mitzi shouted, lunging forward.

But it was already too late.

The mountainside erupted.

Gunfire cracked like a bone breaking in heaven. A dozen shots rang out from shattered windows above. The ridge exploded in sparks and shattered rock as bullets tore into the slope. Steven yelped and ducked instinctively, flinching backward.

Mitzi slammed into him, knocking him sideways and grabbing his arm with both hands. Her shoulder twisted under the force of her own momentum, but she didn’t let go.

“Run!” she barked, already dragging him backward.

Steven stumbled, his boots slipping on the loose shale. “I don’t—I don’t know what’s happening!”

“I know ,” she said through gritted teeth, practically hauling him downhill by the elbow. “Just move, Steven!”

They tore down the slope, boots skidding, wind howling. Gunfire spat behind them, wild and relentless. One round zipped so close it caught the edge of Mitzi’s coat, ripping fabric.

“Bloody hell! ” Steven shouted, clinging to the scarab with one hand, the other gripping her sleeve for balance.

“You still have it?” she gasped, glancing down.

Steven held it up dumbly, his expression horrified. “I—Yes?”

“Good,” Mitzi growled. “Keep it close.”

The scarab pulsed again—warmer now, reacting to something unseen. The divine energy in it prickled the air between them, lighting their path with momentary flashes of gold as they dove behind a fallen stone pillar farther down the trail.

Steven’s chest heaved. “Mitzi… what the hell is this thing?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes scanned the slope above. More shadows. More movement. Reinforcements. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Finally, she turned to him. “It’s something of a compose,” she said softly.

They didn’t stop running. Their boots pounded down the slope, slipping on loose gravel and uneven earth, the wind tearing past them in frantic gusts. Behind them, the gunfire thinned but didn’t stop. A shot cracked off a boulder to their left, sending shards of stone into the air. Steven let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a scream and a gasp.

The village rose ahead—stone walls, slate roofs, curling smoke and chimneys, all tucked between narrow winding streets like a postcard. But now it was no haven. It was a labyrinth.

Mitzi yanked him sideways as they reached the first row of homes, ducking behind a squat outbuilding stacked with firewood. Her breath came in harsh bursts, her heart a war drum in her chest.

Steven bent over, hands on his knees, wheezing. “Are we—are we still being shot at?”

“Not right now,” she hissed, peeking around the edge. “But they’ll follow. They always do.”

Steven nodded helplessly. “Cool. Brilliant. Love that for us.”

“Come on.” She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him forward again.

They bolted through the tight back alleys, past shuttered windows and baskets of laundry flapping on lines. Dogs barked behind fences. A church bell chimed somewhere distant and wrong—it was too calm, too routine for what was happening. Every step echoed like it might draw attention.

A shutter creaked. Somewhere behind them, a door slammed.

They reached the main road just as a crowd began to form near the village square. Locals were drifting in from their homes, murmuring in German, clutching phones and baskets and coats half-on, curious and unaware of the danger lurching just outside their view.

Mitzi pulled Steven into the flow of people, one hand on his back, the other darting up to yank his hood over his curls.

“Keep this up,” she whispered quickly. “And keep your head down. Don’t look anyone in the eye.”

Steven blinked at her, still panting. “Why? What’s—?”

“Just do it,” she said, more gently now, fingers brushing his cheek before she turned forward again. “You’re not invisible, Steven. You’re just... part of the crowd. For now.”

He swallowed and nodded, hunching his shoulders as they moved with the slow tide of villagers toward the square. The scarab was still clutched in his hand, wrapped tight in his sleeve, the glow hidden now—but Mitzi could still feel it. Like a pulse. Like a drumbeat echoing from deep beneath the ground. It called to something. Someone.

They slipped to the outer edge of the gathering, ducking behind a row of market stalls draped in faded canvas. The fabric flapped weakly in the breeze, faded patterns worn nearly white with age. Mitzi pressed herself close to the side of a stone wall, its surface rough and cold against her shoulder, keeping one hand lightly on Steven’s arm. Her fingers curled there—not forcefully, but firmly. Holding him back. Anchoring him in place.

He was still trembling.

She could feel it beneath her palm—each subtle quiver running just under the skin, like the aftershocks of a distant tremor. It hadn’t stopped since they reached the village.

From here, tucked in shadow, they had just enough of a view of the square. Just enough to see what they needed to see. No more. 

A hush began to ripple through the crowd.

It wasn’t sudden. It didn’t fall like a blanket. It started in murmurs, a soft undercurrent passed from voice to voice like wind brushing through dry grass. Whispers. Questioning, reverent. One person turned, then another. Shoulders shifted. Heads tilted toward the center. Somewhere ahead, a child stopped fidgeting. A hand dropped away from a camera. A phone lowered.

A space began to open in the center of the square—slowly, like a tide pulling back, like breath being held.

And then, he appeared.

A man in long robes emerged from between the bodies, walking slowly through the parting throng. His feet were bare on the uneven cobblestones. Each step was careful, precise. His stride wasn’t hurried. It was calm. Measured. Deliberate. As though the world moved for him, not the other way around. As though time waited on his pace.

His presence folded the very air around him. It shifted the current of the gathering, drew every eye without force. Like gravity itself had realigned, pulled inward toward him. Like devotion bent the laws of physics.

People reached out for him—hands of every shape, every age, every story—brushing his shoulders, grazing his arms, skimming the edge of his robe. They touched him like he was sacred. Like he carried salvation in his breath. Like even the hem of his garment could absolve them of whatever burden they carried.

And he let them.

He walked without flinching. Without smiling. Without even seeming to see them. Just moving forward—still, serene, eyes fixed ahead—as if this adoration wasn’t simply welcomed but demanded. As if it were the natural order of things.

Steven leaned closer to Mitzi. His breath barely stirred the air between them.

“Who is that?” he whispered.

Mitzi didn’t answer.

Her jaw had clenched tight, the muscle twitching once near the hinge. Her eyes stayed locked on the man, unblinking, sharp. Tension radiated off her like heat off asphalt, silent and coiled, barely held in check. It bordered on fury—no, it was fury. Cold and focused and ancient.

It was Harrow.

Arthur Harrow.

The air shifted again. It was different now—less reverent, more dense. Not awe, but pressure. Something tightening. The crowd leaned forward. Pressed inward. Drawn to him like iron filings to a magnet, like their bones needed him. Devotion thickened the atmosphere, made it hard to breathe.

Steven glanced around. She saw the edge of panic in his face. 

“Mitzi?” he said, voice low.

She raised a hand—sharp, silent. Not looking at him.

“Don’t move,” she said. “Don’t speak.”

He froze. Swallowed. And did as he was told.

He sank deeper into the folds of his hood, shoulders curling in, trying to vanish into himself. But she could see the tremor in his hand, the one curled tight around the scarab in his pocket. Still shaking.

The crowd pressed in tighter around Harrow, as if drawn by gravity.

He stood still at the center of it all, eyes closed for a beat, basking in the quiet adoration. Then he opened them and lifted his voice—not loud, but clear and measured, and somehow it carried effortlessly across the square.

“What a beautiful day,” he said.

The villagers murmured their agreement, nodding, smiling, hanging on his every word.

“It’s like we’re in heaven,” Harrow continued, his voice calm, almost wistful, gentle in a way that unsettled more than it comforted. The words floated on the still air, carried on something quieter than authority, yet no less commanding.

He paused.

Let it linger.

Then his tone shifted, the softness hollowing out just slightly.

“Only… It’s not heaven… Is it?”

As he spoke, he turned his head slowly, scanning the gathered faces. He moved like someone watching flowers bloom in time-lapse; methodical, composed, disturbingly serene. His smile remained, the edges of his mouth held in place like they were carved there. But behind it—beneath the curve of lip and the crinkle of eyes—something darkened. 

It wasn’t obvious. It wasn’t loud. But it was there. An edge. A warning.

“It’s the darkness,” he said, and the words came slower now. He let them hang, each syllable weighty and deliberate. “Sometimes… it hides in our very hearts.”

The crowd had gone utterly still. A child clutched her mother’s hand. An old woman whispered a prayer. And yet no one moved. No one left.

“We are here,” Harrow continued, raising his voice just enough to lift it above the silence, “to make the Earth as much like Heaven as possible.”

Another pause.

A smile that didn’t reach the eyes.

Then, simply, with the casual intimacy of someone asking who’d like to go next at a dinner party, he said:  “Who’d like to go first?”

There was a breath—an almost imperceptible hesitation—and then a man stepped forward. Middle-aged. His beard was shot through with gray. His eyes, though lowered, carried the weight of something old and unfinished. Regret. Grief. Quiet surrender.

His face held sadness. Harrow’s expression softened, just slightly. Whether it was true empathy or the illusion of it, Mitzi couldn’t tell.

“You’re a brave man,” Harrow said gently, “offering your soul for judgment.” He dipped his head in reverence, not mockery. “Wanting to serve our goddess… even before she wakes.”

He extended his arms and carefully placed the shaft of his staff into the man’s waiting palms. The gesture was ritualistic, practiced, more than symbolic. It was intimate. Sacred.

“I judge you,” Harrow intoned, his voice lowering, grounding itself like stone. “In Ammit’s name.” His hands closed gently over the man’s. “With but a fraction of her power.”

The staff began to glow faintly as the judgment began.

Mitzi’s breath caught.

Her eyes dropped to the scale tattoo etched into Harrow’s forearm, which had begun to move—its twin pans rocking back and forth in eerie rhythm. The motion was smooth, hypnotic. But it wasn’t right. Not here. Not now.

It mimicked the sacred rite of judgment that should only come at the end of a soul’s life. A rite reserved for the dead. For the Duat. For the goddess herself. But Harrow was judging the living. He was violating her goddess’s right.

The scales rocked once more… then stilled. Balanced. A soft green glow pulsed across the inked lines. The man had been spared. The judgment was passed.

“This,” Harrow announced, drawing the man into an embrace, “is the face of a good man.”

Applause erupted from the crowd—soft at first, then louder, a rising tide of approval and relief. People clapped. Some smiled. One woman wept. As if this were good. As if this desecration of the divine order was holy.

“Who would like to go next?” Harrow asked, his smile unwavering. It was the kind of smile meant to be warm, inviting. But there was something too steady about it—too still. Like it had been placed there, like a mask.

A moment passed. Then—

“Please, Harrow,” came a voice, thin, tremulous.

An old woman stepped forward from the crowd, her frame small but upright, her shawl clutched tightly around her shoulders. 

Her eyes shimmered with quiet desperation. “I must know.”

Harrow’s expression softened, or at least pretended to. He extended a hand toward her.

“Call me Arthur,” he said, his tone warm with false familiarity. “Come.”

She moved toward him slowly, her steps careful but resolute, as if she’d made peace with whatever might come. Or was trying to. He welcomed her gently, almost tenderly, taking her by the hands. Then, as before, he placed the staff into her palms—ceremonial, deliberate. A gesture of supposed grace. His hands rested lightly over hers as he closed the circuit between them.

The tattooed scales on his forearm began to stir once more.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Mitzi’s breath caught again.

Steven said nothing, but she could feel the way he tensed beside her, like something inside him recognized this wasn’t justice but spectacle.

The scales stopped.

And they turned red.

A low gasp rippled through the crowd. Someone murmured a prayer. Others stood in stunned silence.

“I’m sorry,” Harrow said, voice quiet—almost mournful.

The old woman blinked, disbelief written in every line of her face. “I’ve been good my entire life,” she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of it. “I’ve only ever tried to help.”

Harrow nodded solemnly, never releasing her hands. “I believe you,” he said gently. “But the scales see everything.” He spoke like a priest giving last rites. Like this was mercy. “Perhaps it is something that lies ahead,” he said, soft and patient.

The woman’s lips trembled. But she didn’t move. She didn’t fight.

“I wish you could live to see the world we make,” Harrow said. There was real sadness in his voice now—or the illusion of it. “Yet Ammit has decided…”

His words trailed off, dipped into something darker. Final.

Mitzi’s spine stiffened.

Then it happened.

Right before their eyes, the woman’s body seized—just for an instant—and then slackened. The color drained from her face. Her limbs gave out beneath her. Her body crumpled to the stone in complete silence. 

She didn’t scream.

She was simply gone.

Grey. Lifeless.

Mitzi and Steven stood frozen as the woman’s body was lifted from the stone.

One of the cultists—a tall man in plain robes with eyes like polished glass—stepped forward from the crowd without being summoned. He moved with practiced ease as if this weren’t the first time. As if carrying away the dead had become routine.

He bent, gently, almost reverently, and scooped the woman’s lifeless form into his arms. Her shawl hung limp from her shoulders. Her head lolled to the side, hair brushing against his chest. There was no dignity in death here—only silence.

The crowd parted for the cultist as he carried her away, as if this, too, was part of the ritual. As if grief had no place here. As if mourning had been outlawed.

Mitzi felt Nephthys inside her—hot and coiled, not with sorrow, but with fury.

It burned low in her chest like a second heartbeat, slow and ancient and rising.

The goddess was angry. Furious.

This was not justice. This was desecration. The scales had been hijacked.

Mitzi’s head snapped back around the instant Harrow’s voice rose above the murmuring crowd. He shouted something—harsh and rhythmic, the syllables laced with sharp edges and ancient cadence. The language hit her like a shockwave, a sound both foreign and achingly familiar. Ancient Egyptian. But before her mind could even begin to translate, the effect had already taken hold.

All around them, the crowd moved in unison. One by one, they dropped to their knees. No hesitation. No question. Like puppets responding to a pulled string.

Mitzi’s heart pounded. The sheer suddenness of it chilled her more than the Alpine air ever could. The square that had just moments ago been brimming with breath and motion now stilled into reverent submission.

Everyone knelt.

A gun was cocked at the back of her head.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath as she raised her arms in surrender.

Steven shifted beside her, panicked, uncertain, caught in a moment between instinct and defiance. Too late now. They’d been seen. They were the only ones still upright.

Chapter Text

“YOU,” HARROW SAID, HIS VOICE LOW but piercing as he stepped forward, eyes locking directly onto Steven. The crowd quieted in an instant, as if the mere weight of his attention pressed a hush over them. “I know you.”

“Me?” Steven asked, blinking rapidly, his posture already shrinking under the pressure. His voice cracked just slightly, a tremor betraying the panic starting to rise in his chest. “Hi, uh…” He lifted a hand in a timid little wave, the kind that tried to deflect attention rather than invite it—a useless gesture, flimsy and transparent even to himself.

Harrow’s gaze sharpened, the small crease between his brows deepening, his lip curling in faint disdain. “Mercenary.”

The word fell heavily.

A single match tossed into a room full of tinder.

It ignited the space with sudden, combustible tension.

Every head in the crowd turned in near-perfect sync, a wave of motion sweeping through the gathered cultists. The obedient stillness shattered as they rose to their feet slowly, mechanically, like marionettes pulled up by unseen strings. All eyes fell on Steven with sudden, unwavering suspicion—like they were waking from a trance and had just been handed a new directive.

“No, no,” Steven said quickly, both hands coming up defensively as he shook his head with exaggerated emphasis. His voice climbed an octave, thin with nerves. “I’m not a mercenary—I’m a gift shop-ist!” he blurted. He forced a breathless little laugh, the sound brittle and weightless, like glass rattling in a storm. “Uh… my name’s Steven Grant, um…” He trailed off again, helpless, his hands flapping uselessly at his sides like birds trying to take flight in a sealed room.

“Steven,” Mitzi hissed, sharp and low, every syllable threaded with warning. “Stop talking.”

He ignored her. Or didn’t hear her. Or couldn’t help himself—momentum already carrying him too far forward to stop.

“Well, Steven Grant, of the gift shop,” Harrow said, stepping forward with eerie calm, like a man walking toward something already decided. His robes whispered across the stone, trailing behind him with an unsettling grace. Every movement was slow, deliberate, and predatory. His eyes never left Steven’s. “Will you return the scarab?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a demand. Heavy as a hammer, inevitable as gravity.

“Oh, uh… yeah. All right,” Steven replied, his voice high and thin, tinged with desperation. He took a hesitant step forward, fumbling awkwardly at the pocket of his jacket. “Yeah, the… uh, the thing… You mean—”

His fingers closed around the smooth shape of the scarab. It was warm, unsettlingly so, like it had a pulse. He pulled it out slowly, careful and unsteady, like a student realizing mid-sentence that he hadn’t studied for the exam and everyone had just turned to look.

“Steven,” Mitzi said sharply, her voice cutting through the air like a blade, clean and precise. “Don’t—”

“You will give him nothing,” came Khonshu’s voice again, disembodied and absolute, settling over Steven like a cold shroud.

Steven tried to hand the scarab out to Harrow, extending his arm with a shaky resolve, every muscle tensed in resistance. But his fist clutched it involuntarily, fingers locking down as though possessed, refusing to release the golden relic into Harrow’s outstretched, expectant palm. The weight of it pulsed in his grip, strange and deliberate, as if something ancient and unseen had wrapped its will around him, resisting the command of his conscious mind and keeping it from Harrow’s sticky, eager fingers.

“I strongly encourage you to return that,” Harrow hissed out, his voice low and coiled like a snake ready to strike, venom dripping from every word. The threat beneath his tone was palpable, a storm gathering on the edge of restraint.

Steven began to stammer through things, half-sentences and fragments spilling from his mouth. His voice cracked as confusion and panic warred in his throat, breath stuttering. He looked down at his clenched hand in horror, then deliberately, painstakingly began to uncurl his fingers one by one, like prying open a rusted lock. 

With effort, he tried to hand the scarab to the man again, arm trembling—but just before Harrow could take hold of it, Steven’s body betrayed him again. His arm jerked back of its own accord, muscles wrenching away from Harrow as if pulled by invisible strings, the relic yanked from reach like it had a will of its own.

“I will not ask again,” Harrow glared, voice turning to ice. 

His eyes narrowed to slits, burning with intent, and the air itself seemed to still around him. It was the kind of warning that didn’t repeat itself—the kind that came with consequences carved in stone.

“I didn’t do that on purpose,” Steven said, eyes wide and pleading. His whole face twisted in bewilderment as he held Harrow’s gaze, desperate to be believed. “I don't know what’s happening,” he stated, the words raw and real, his voice pitching higher. His chest rose and fell with panic, his world slipping further from his control with every breath.

Steven turned around, clumsy and rigid, offering his backward-stretched hand out to Harrow again in a last-ditch attempt at cooperation—but then, without any warning, his legs began to move. His body abruptly and swiftly began to march away, his feet stomping out a rhythm he hadn’t chosen, like a soldier under orders he didn’t understand. 

“Wait—what? No, no—!” he cried, twisting his torso back, fighting his own limbs. 

Cultists surged in, grabbing him by both arms, locking him down. They began to drag him, heels scraping across stone, as he thrashed and shouted for them to stop, panic blooming into full-blown chaos.

Mitzi cursed under her breath, sharp and low, before she spun around in one fluid motion, reacting without thought. She grabbed the wrist of the gunman behind her just as he raised his weapon, her fingers locking down tight. With a swift and practiced twist, she forced his arm downward and slammed it hard across her knee, bone meeting bone with a brutal crack. 

His grip slackened instantly, pain registering too late. She yanked the pistol from his hand, flipping it into her own with deadly precision. She let out one clean shot, the echo of it sharp and final, striking the man in the shoulder. He howled, stumbling backward before collapsing to the ground with a heavy thud, weaponless and writhing.

She whipped around, hair bouncing as she spun, her eyes sweeping the scene in search of Steven. Her heart hammered in her chest, each beat louder than the chaos around her. Panic clawed at her ribs, sharp and insistent, as the square pulsed with movement—screams, pounding feet, the crash of splintering wood. A sudden cluster of shouts—sharp cries of pain and impact—cut through the noise and drew her attention across the square like a magnet snapping into place.

That’s where he was.

Except… he wasn’t Steven.

Not anymore.

It was unmistakable in the way he moved—fluid, brutal, efficient. No hesitation, no flailing panic. He wasn’t stumbling or apologizing or pleading for everyone to calm down. He was a blur of motion, dismantling the men around him with nothing but the sharpened wings of the scarab in his hand, which gleamed like a living weapon. 

He ducked low beneath a strike, pivoted on one heel, and struck with calculated precision—cutting a wide arc across his attacker’s side. Another man charged him from behind, but he twisted and dropped him with a vicious elbow to the neck. They fell like paper soldiers in his wake, crumpling one by one.

She stared, frozen. She knew it wasn’t Steven. But it didn’t feel like Marc either. There was something different.

The way he moved—it wasn’t just practiced, it was instinctual, almost ancient. Every strike felt inherited , like he had done this before in another life, with another face. There was too much confidence, too much certainty in his violence. It was surgical. And still… still there was something wrong in it, something not quite Marc, not quite right. Before she could take another breath or put a name to the presence inside him, he froze.

His body stilled, mid-motion, and the shift was obvious. The stillness wasn’t confident—it was stunned. As if his limbs no longer belonged to him. His chest rose and fell in a jagged rhythm, like he’d just surfaced from deep water. His eyes darted to the bodies on the ground, then down to his own hands, now dripping with blood. The scarab trembled slightly in his grasp. Whatever had been driving him—it was gone.

Steven had returned. And Steven was horrified. She didn’t wait for him to collapse. She didn’t give herself time to think. She moved.

She took off in a sprint, her boots pounding against the stone as she cut straight through the line of Harrow’s men, dodging hands that reached for her, slipping between them with practiced finesse. A dagger missed her ribs by a breath. She spun past another attacker, caught the glint of his blade, and used the momentum to propel herself forward faster. She leapt the last few feet, landing beside Steven, who still hadn’t moved—his eyes locked on the blood, his mouth slightly open in silent disbelief.

Without a word, she grabbed his hand, slick with blood, and pulled before taking off in a sprint.

Together, they darted through the open courtyard, weaving between pillars and half-collapsed crates, always just a step ahead of the closing circle of cultists. Their boots kicked up dust and shattered tile, and somewhere behind them, a vase exploded into powder as someone fired wildly. Harrow’s voice echoed behind them, calling out commands she didn’t stop to hear. Her focus narrowed to escape—nothing else mattered. The world fell away, background noise drowned by the pounding rhythm of her pulse and Steven’s ragged breaths at her side.

She was good at evading. Better than good. She’d been doing it for years.

Her eyes locked onto a truck parked at the far edge of the square—if you could even call it that. The thing was painted in vibrant swirls of pink and yellow, its chassis adorned with cartoon frosting designs and plastic sprinkles. A giant fiberglass cupcake was bolted to the roof, complete with a cherry on top that wobbled slightly in the wind. It was ludicrous, garish, and all they had.

“There,” she muttered, tightening her grip on Steven’s arm.

They reached it in seconds. She wrenched the door open and all but shoved Steven inside, slamming it shut behind him. The interior smelled like bubblegum and old sugar, the seat covers sticky with forgotten syrup stains.

“Start the truck, Steven!” she barked.

Steven looked around, wild-eyed, clearly thrown by the sugar-coated absurdity surrounding him. “Is this—Is this a cupcake van?!”

“Does it matter?! Start it!” she snapped, already spinning around.

Without waiting for a response, she raised the pistol and fired off three sharp shots at the nearest cultists. The cracks echoed off stone and candy-colored fiberglass. Two men ducked out of sight. The third crumpled, clutching his leg and screaming, his weapon clattering uselessly against the stone.

Smoke curled from the barrel as she backed toward the passenger side, keeping her sights on the space between her and Harrow. The glare of the midday sun caught the cupcake’s windshield and blinded her for a second, but she didn’t flinch.

“Now, Steven!” she shouted again, vaulting into the cupcake truck without looking back. “Go!”

They took off at full speed. Steven hit the gas like a bat out of hell, and the cupcake van lurched forward with a high-pitched whine, its tires skidding before finding traction. The engine roared—more enthusiastic than powerful—and the whole chassis rattled like it wasn’t built for this kind of intensity. The van tore through the narrow alpine streets, winding around stone walls, careening down sharp slopes with alarming speed, its cherry-topped roof wobbling madly in the wind.

“What am I doing?” Steven gasped, white-knuckling the wheel as he narrowly avoided a market stall. “I don’t even have my license,” he added, voice rising with each word.

“Calm down, Steven,” Mitzi said, climbing fully into the passenger seat. Her breath was still ragged from the sprint, but her tone was controlled, urgent, not panicked. “Just follow the roads and you’ll be fine.” She tried to steady him with the calm she didn’t quite feel herself, wiping sweat from her brow as she leaned forward to scan the road ahead.

Steven nodded frantically, though it didn’t do much to center him. “Oh, my God,” he whispered, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. “Oh my God .”

Mitzi turned sharply to look through the back window. Her gut dropped.

An entire fleet of Harrow’s men was behind them—four vehicles at least, headlights glaring, tires screaming around curves. Men leaned out of the windows already, shouting, pointing. One of them brandished something that looked way too much like a rifle for comfort.

“Fuck,” Mitzi muttered, whipping back around. She checked the gun in her hand, ejecting the clip with a snap and a flick of her thumb. Three bullets. Just three. She slammed it back in and cursed again, louder this time.

“This has to be a dream,” Steven muttered, more to himself than to her. “This has to be a dream,” he repeated, voice strained and faraway like he was clinging to the phrase as a mantra, a spell that might make this all dissolve.

“Yes,” Mitzi said quickly. “This is a dream, Steven. It’s just a dream.” Her voice was low, insistent, trying to pry open the door inside his head—hoping, praying he might snap out of it. If she could just get Marc back now…

But it didn’t seem to work.

“They’re gonna kill us!” Steven yelled. “Come on, you bloody cupcake van!” He banged the wheel once for emphasis, the entire vehicle shuddering under the force like it agreed.

“Steven!” Mitzi barked, pointing ahead. “Chickens!”

“What?!”

“ Chickens! ”

A massive truck loomed ahead, filled with cages stacked high and bursting with flapping, squawking birds. Steven’s eyes went wide as he jerked the wheel hard to the left, barely avoiding a head-on collision. The cupcake van scraped past with inches to spare—feathers exploded into the air like confetti.

Behind them, one of Harrow’s cars wasn’t so lucky. It slammed full-force into the rear of the chicken truck. The sound of metal crunching and birds squawking in protest filled the air. The van rocked from the impact shockwave, jolting them forward in their seats.

Steven let out a strangled yelp, swerving again as the back tires fishtailed dangerously close to the cliff’s edge. The van’s rear wobbled and bucked like it was ready to fly off the mountain. “Sorry! Sorry! Bloody hell, sorry!” he shouted at a passing car as they swerved around it, narrowly missing another collision.

The driver of the chicken truck, a woman with a cigarette hanging from her lips, leaned out of her window and flipped them off with casual venom.

Steven stared. “Did she just—did she flip us off ?!”

“Eyes on the road, cupcake boy!” Mitzi yelled, bracing herself as the van barreled downhill at breakneck speed, the Alps blurring around them, the cultists still in pursuit.

She turned around at the sound of bullets shattering the back window. A man jumped onto the back of the van and threw open the doors. Mitzi tossed the gun in her hand to Steven without a second thought before she stood up and threw her leg out, hitting the man in the face.

He staggered but recovered fast, too fast.

He grabbed her ankle mid-kick and yanked her hard off her feet.

Mitzi crashed onto the van floor with a choked grunt, her breath knocked clean from her lungs. Before she could scramble up, he grabbed her by the coat and shoved her straight toward the gaping doors.

Suddenly, there was nothing beneath her. 

She caught the edge just in time.

The wind roared in her ears as her legs swung wildly above the rushing road. The cold bit deep into her bones. Her fingers gripped the metal floor with everything she had, nails cracking, arms burning.

The man crouched down, ready to pry her loose.

Then—

CRACK!

The gunshot rang out.

Chapter Text

THE MAN JERKED BACK VIOLENTLY, A HOLE torn clean through his chest—a perfect, ragged circle blooming dark across his shirt. For a split second, his eyes stayed wide, lips parted as if he might still say something. Then all strength left him. His body toppled out the back of the van without ceremony, limbs limp, a puppet with its strings cut. The open doors framed him for just a moment as he fell—then the road swallowed him.

Mariam gritted her teeth and hauled herself back inside with a ragged cry, fingers clawing at the floor of the van as her boots scrabbled for purchase. Her arms trembled under her own weight, slick with sweat and grime, and for a breathless moment, it felt like she wouldn’t make it.

But she did.

She collapsed inside, rolling onto her side with a dull thud, heart slamming against her ribs like it was trying to break free. Her lungs dragged in freezing air, each inhale burning sharp as glass. Her cloak was half-torn, blood smeared along her forearm where she'd scraped it against the van’s frame. She couldn’t tell if it was hers.

“Baby,” Marc’s voice called from the front, low and steady. “You with me?”

She turned her head—Steven was gone.

Marc sat behind the wheel, eyes sharp, posture locked in. The wind whipped through the shattered rear window and flung broken glass across the floor, but he didn’t even flinch. The gun sat in his right hand, barrel still hot. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the road.

“You alright?” he asked again, calm but firm.

“Yeah,” she croaked. “Still breathing.”

“Good.” He flexed his fingers around the grip once before setting the gun down beside him. “Next time, don’t get that close to the edge.”

“Wasn’t planning on making a habit of it,” she muttered with annoyance.

He glanced at her through the rearview mirror, and for just a moment, something softer flickered behind the steel. “You did good,” he said. “But I had you.”

Then, Marc blinked. His knuckles loosened. His expression shifted subtly, like a shadow passing through him.

Steven let out a sudden gasp, hands flying off the wheel for just a moment before he grabbed it again.

“Wait—wha—” He looked wildly between the road and the shattered mirror. “Did I just—what—what happened?! Is that blood?! Is that my blood?!”

“Not yours,” Mitzi said, wiping her scraped palms on her jeans.

Steven blinked, then stared at the gun on the seat beside him like it might explode. “Did I shoot someone?!”

“No,” she said softly. “You didn’t.”

“Wake up, Marc!” Khonshu’s voice came yet again, cold and thunderous, echoing from the back of Steven’s skull like a crack of lightning. “If he loses the scarab, I’ll kill you both,” he growled, voice brimming with divine threat, the kind that didn’t bluff.

“Calm down,” came Nephthys’s voice next, cool and clipped. She sounded more annoyed than alarmed, her tone razor-sharp. “You’re distracting them,” she said with a scoff, her disdain unmistakable.

“I don’t understand what’s happening!” Steven shouted, his voice ragged with terror. He dragged the words out in a broken sob, chest heaving. “I didn’t sign up for any of this!”

The van wobbled in the lane, swerving dangerously close to the guardrail. His panicked grip on the wheel twisted it too far, then too little, and the tires screamed in protest. The entire chassis groaned under the strain.

“Truck, Steven!” Mitzi shouted, her voice slicing through the chaos like a whip crack. Her eyes went wide.

“What!?” Steven turned toward her, dazed, blinking like he was underwater.

“TRUCK!!” she screamed, flinging one arm toward the windshield.

A logging truck. 

It burst over the hill ahead of them like a beast set loose—its horn screaming, its massive bulk taking up the whole oncoming lane. Towering stacks of thick pine trunks were chained to its bed, but the slope made it unstable, wheels rattling as it surged down the mountain. The logs rocked violently. One good bump and they'd fly loose like missiles.

Steven screeched like a dying bird, the sound ripping from his throat—part panic, part pure instinct—as he yanked the wheel as hard as he could. The tires howled in protest, and the entire van swayed violently, leaning so far it felt like it might flip. The cupcake topper groaned on its bolts, teetering wildly.

They narrowly missed the edge of the road by inches—the rocky cliffside flashing past the passenger window in a dizzying blur. On the other side, the logging truck roared by, missing them by a breath. Steven let out another shriek as the cupcake van bounced over the uneven pavement, the impact jarring his spine.

Behind them, metal screamed.

The truck slammed into the bend it couldn’t make, the weight of the logs tipping it forward. Chains snapped with sharp metallic cracks, and the entire load rolled free from the bed like spilled marbles—only each one was the size of a small tree.

One of Harrow’s black cars came too fast around the corner, tires squealing as the driver tried to swerve.

Too late.

It slammed into the nearest log at full speed. The front end folded inward with a sickening crunch, the car flipping over itself once, twice—then rolling into the trees in a storm of shattered glass and crushed metal.

Steven whimpered. “Oh my God, this is the worst dream I’ve ever had.”

The last two cars from Harrow’s convoy surged forward, engines snarling as they picked up speed. They flanked the van from either side, edging in tight—one to the left, one to the right—boxing them in like wolves closing around prey.

Mitzi growled, deep and low in her throat. " Oh, I hate these cultists. " The words barely made it out through clenched teeth.

Without hesitation, she threw open the passenger door. Wind howled into the van, but she was already moving—already out. She leaped. Boots first, she slammed into the approaching sedan.

The driver didn’t even have time to shout.

Her boot caught him square in the jaw, cracking his head against the window. His weapon jerked up reflexively, but she was faster—her hand clamped around the gun and tore it from his grip. She turned smoothly in the same motion, her finger already on the trigger.

BANG!

The man in the passenger seat barely had time to blink before the bullet found him. His body slumped instantly, and the car jerked sideways, starting to swerve. Without waiting to see the outcome, Mitzi pushed off the hood and launched herself backward, spinning in the air as the ground rushed toward her.

Her boots skidded across the pavement with a teeth-rattling screech, rubber burning as sparks flew beneath her heels. For a second she almost lost her footing, but then she grabbed the van’s frame, pulled hard, and hauled herself back into the passenger seat in one smooth, practiced motion.

“Go, go, go—!” she barked, slamming the door shut behind her.

The sedan on their right was still there, still too close. She tried to line up a shot on the driver, but the bastard kept swerving just enough, using the slope of the road and the glare from the sun to throw her off.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Mitzi roared, frustration pouring out of her as she jerked the gun back toward her chest.

She glanced at Steven—except it wasn’t Steven anymore. It was Marc. His jaw was tight, his knuckles white on the wheel.

“I can’t get a good shot on him,” she said, breathless, furious. “You gotta give me something, Marc.”

“Right,” Marc said. “Hang on,” he said, turning the wheel sharply, spinning the van around, and putting it in reverse as they drove backwards.

Mariam smirked at her husband, her expression sharp with adrenaline and just a touch of pride. The wind tangled in her hair, and the barrel of the pistol gleamed in the sunlight.

“Alright, habibi,” she muttered under her breath, leveling her aim. “Hold it steady.”

Marc didn’t speak—but he didn’t need to. The flicker in his eyes said enough, sharp and steady beneath the strain of the chase. His grip tightened on the wheel, knuckles white against the leather, every muscle in his arms coiled with focus. With a slight shift of his hands and the calm control that came from experience under fire, he adjusted the van’s course. It straightened just enough, only a few precious inches, but it was all she needed. No words. Just trust.

One breath in.

One breath out. 

She pulled the trigger.

CRACK!

The shot rang out like a thunderclap, slicing through the roar of engines and the screech of tires. The bullet punched through the sedan’s windshield, hitting the driver dead-center—clean, precise. 

His head snapped back.

The car immediately veered.

Without hands on the wheel or a foot on the brake, the sedan shuddered violently, swerving hard to the right. Its tires skidded against the cracked pavement. For a second, it looked like it might stabilize—but then the edge of the cliff rushed up.

The front wheels dipped. The entire vehicle lifted slightly at the back, then tipped forward and went hurtling over the side of the mountain road. There was no explosion, just the sound of crunching metal, then silence as it vanished into the trees below.

Mariam exhaled slowly and cocked the gun again.

“One down,” she said, without taking her eyes off the road. “Let’s deal with the last one.”

Right as she said that, the pickup now in front of them suddenly slammed its brakes, and the front bumper of the cupcake van collided with a loud crack . The jolt whipped them forward, their seatbelts snapping tight across their chests. Mitzi’s head snapped up just in time to see something fly through the air.

A gun.

It spun end over end before crashing clean through the pickup’s front windshield and vanishing into the trees beyond.

She blinked once. “Did you—?”

She turned sharply toward the driver’s seat—and froze. 

Not Marc. Again.

Steven clung to the steering wheel like a man bracing for a plane crash, eyes wide with sheer disbelief, mouth hanging open as he stared at the road whipping by beneath them— backwards , from the angle he was facing now.

“Did he just throw the gun?” came Khonshu’s voice, dry and echoing with biting sarcasm. The god’s tone ricocheted around the van like a voice in a cathedral.

Steven let out a panicked breath, his chest rising and falling in rapid bursts. “I don’t—I don’t know what I’m doing!” he shouted, voice cracking. “Why are we even here?! ”

Khonshu growled, deep and low like thunder building on the horizon. “Then leave us be, parasite!” the god boomed, his fury rattling through the air.

The tires of the van screeched in protest as the pickup truck behind them veered sharply and slammed into the rear bumper. The whole vehicle jolted violently, the frame twisting under the force. The pit maneuver sent them spinning, wheels skidding helplessly across the pavement.

Mitzi was thrown sideways, her body slamming against the door. She held on tight, gritting her teeth as the world spun around her. Out the windshield, she watched in horrified disbelief as the giant fiberglass cupcake broke free from the roof. It went bouncing down the road in chaotic tumbles, crashing end over end like a monstrous pastry from hell.

The van came to a dead stop with a hard jolt that rocked them forward. The engine groaned, coughed once—and died completely.

“Oh no,” Steven muttered, his voice high and tight. “Come on, come on,” he pleaded, fumbling at the key in the ignition. He tried again. And again. But the engine only sputtered, coughing up smoke and failing to turn over.

Behind them, the truck skidded to a halt, wheels screeching as it whipped around and blocked the road ahead. Two men leaped out from either side, weapons already raised.

Steven’s hands shot into the air, eyes wide, heart hammering. But Mitzi didn’t wait for the next move. She already knew what was coming.

She threw open her door and leapt out into the open. In the same second, a deep rumble cracked through the air—and then a roar.

The logs came tumbling down from above, crashing through the trees like thunder made solid. Massive, heavy, fast. The cultists barely had time to turn before the first log struck. It hit with enough force to launch one man into the air, crushing the other beneath its weight. Their guns clattered to the pavement, useless.

Mitzi didn’t stop moving. She spun around, reached into the van, and grabbed Steven by the collar. She yanked him across the seats and dragged him out the passenger door as more logs thundered down.

“Go!” she snapped, shoving him over the roadside barrier. She vaulted after him, landing in the grass just as another log cracked against the pavement a few feet behind them.

And then—without warning—Marc was back.

One second she was alone beneath the roaring chaos, and the next, his arms were around her, tight and unyielding, anchoring her to the earth. In a single, fluid motion, he tackled her to the ground, his full weight driving them down hard. She barely had time to register the movement before his body curled over hers protectively, a living shield between her and the sky.

A moment later, the world exploded.

Logs crashed down across the barrier above them with a sound like thunder—raw, brutal, deafening. The air filled with the shriek of splintering wood and the groan of twisting metal as the weight slammed down, testing the limits of what could hold. Branches cracked like bones. Shards sprayed in every direction.

Marc didn’t move. Not even a flinch.

He held steady over her, arms locked around her torso, one hand braced beside her head, muscles tight with effort. She could feel the tension running through him, every breath he took shallow and measured.

The assault didn’t last long, but it felt like it did.

And then, at last, the rumble began to fade. The final logs tumbled down the slope in a fading roar, swallowed into the forest below. Silence—heavy and ringing—settled in their wake.

Only then did Marc lift his head.

His breath was hot against her ear, the barest shift in pressure breaking the stillness between them. “You okay?” he murmured, voice low and rough.

She gave a small, quick nod, her pulse still hammering. She could barely think, let alone speak. For a moment, all she could do was breathe. 

Then, slowly, carefully, she turned her head, just enough to meet his gaze beneath the edge of his hood.

A grin tugged at the corner of her lips. Wide. Wild. Undeniably triumphant. Without a word, she opened her fist between them, palm up. There, nestled against her skin, the scarab gleamed—untouched, unbroken. It shimmered faintly in the dim light, humming with power like a heartbeat, steady and sure.

Marc stared at it for a beat and then let out a breath that was half a laugh, half disbelief. “Show-off,” he muttered.

Her grin only widened. “Damn right, I am.”

Chapter Text

STEVEN SAT AT THE PATIO table, hands folded tightly in his lap, doing his absolute best not to look like someone who’d been stood up. So far, he was failing miserably. He glanced at the restaurant entrance. Then at his watch.

7:29 P.M.

He tried to smile at the waiter who passed for the third time, but it came out more like a wince. The table across from him was still empty. His water glass was sweating, untouched. His collar was stiff. His stomach was in knots.

“Maybe she forgot,” he whispered to himself. “Or changed her mind. Yeah. That’d make sense. She probably realized it wasn’t a date when she asked, and now she’s dodging the whole thing. Can’t blame her.” He reached for the menu again, if only to hide behind it. 

He couldn’t even focus on the words. Everything looked like a blur of steak and humiliation.

And then— “Steven!”

His head snapped up so fast it made his chair creak. Mitzi was jogging toward him from down the sidewalk, breathless and radiant, her black dress catching the light like ink in motion. Her cheeks were flushed from the run, dark hair pulled back with a few rebellious strands framing her face. 

She looked… He couldn’t think of the word. He couldn’t think at all.

“I am so sorry,” she said as she reached the table, brushing windblown hair behind her ear. “I know I’m crazy late. The train stalled, I couldn’t get a signal, and then I had to sprint three blocks—”

“It’s fine!” Steven stood abruptly, nearly knocking over the chair. “Really. It’s—it’s totally fine! I was just, um… reviewing the menu. Lots of meat. Loads of... options.”

She laughed, catching her breath as she sat down. “Still, I would’ve felt awful. I’m the one who asked to reschedule. It would’ve been terrible if I didn’t show.”

Steven paused. “Wait—you did?”

She gave him a look, half amusement, half pity. “Yeah. Remember? I had that family emergency?”

“Oh. Right. That’s… right. Sorry, I guess I forgot.”

“No worries. You waited, and that’s what counts.” Her eyes met his, warm and a little soft. “Thanks for not giving up on me.”

He smiled, half a breath behind. “Was starting to think I’d made the whole thing up.”

“Well, I’m real,” she said lightly. “And starving. Are you?”

“Yeah! Yes. Starving. Famished. Ready for an irresponsible number of side dishes.”

She laughed, the tension finally easing between them.

Steven stared intently at the menu, chewing the inside of his cheek. “So, um…” he glanced up at her, eyes wide with innocent desperation, “what’s… what’s a good steak?”

Mitzi blinked. “What’s a good steak?”

“Yeah, like… your go-to. Your classic cow. The reliable one.”

She laughed softly. “Well, depends on what you like. Ribeye’s usually a safe bet. Or sirloin if you want leaner. There’s a filet mignon here that’s really good, but it’s kind of tiny and overpriced.”

He nodded solemnly. “Right. Cool. Yep. All sounds very… steak-y.”

Mitzi tilted her head. “Have you… not had steak before?”

“Oh, not in years,” he said brightly. “I’m vegan.”

There was a full beat of silence. Mitziblinked, realization hitting just a little too late. “Oh no. This is a steakhouse.”

“No, no, it’s fine!” he said quickly, holding up his hands. “I—this is on me! I should’ve said something.”

“I asked you to a steakhouse,” she said, horrified, setting down her menu. “I didn’t even think—I didn’t ask if you had dietary restrictions or allergies or moral philosophies—”

“No, really, it’s okay!” Steven insisted. “I mean, look—mashed potatoes, grilled asparagus, house salad. That’s dinner! That’s a very reasonable dinner!”

Mitzi winced. “That’s a plate of side dishes.”

“I like side dishes,” he said with a shrug, trying to smile. “Plus, it makes me look polite. You’ll think I’m low maintenance.”

She groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead. “I swear I’m not usually this inconsiderate.”

“You’re not inconsiderate. You’re—” he paused, then grinned. “—just overly confident in the charm of meat.”

She cracked a smile at that, then laughed. “Okay, yeah. I kind of am.”

He leaned forward a little, the tension finally melting. “You can make it up to me with dessert.”

“Deal,” she said, lifting her water glass. “And next time, I’ll pick a place with, like… beans.”

“I do love a good bean,” he said, clinking his glass against hers with a grin.

Their glasses touched with a gentle chime, and their smiles lingered over the rims, holding each other’s gaze a heartbeat longer than necessary. Warmth unfurled between them, soft and unhurried. Mitzi set her drink down, the faint clink against the table breaking the spell only slightly, and leaned back in her chair, her eyes tracing him with quiet curiosity and something almost tender.

“Hey,” she said, “Do you want to get out of here?”

Steven blinked. “Oh—no! I mean—no as in yes, but also no as in it’s fine. I don’t want to ruin the plans. I mean, not that you ruined them—I just meant—”

She held up a hand, amused. “Steven.” 

He froze mid-ramble.

She smirked. “I know a better place.”

He hesitated, torn between politeness and relief. “You sure? We haven’t even—”

“I dragged a vegan to a steakhouse and showed up late,” she said flatly. “I think it’s okay if we skip the salad course.”

His lips twitched. “I mean… when you put it like that…”

“Come on,” she said, already rising from her chair. “Let’s ditch before they bring bread and trap us with guilt.”

Steven stood too, unsure if they were supposed to tell someone they were leaving, but following her anyway as she led him away from the table. No explanations. No apologies. Just a shared smile, a breath of laughter, and the soft sound of her heels clicking against the pavement as she looked back as he followed.

𓂀

They wandered through the city streets, the evening mellow and humming around them. The restaurant lights faded behind them as the buzz of traffic and soft chatter from pubs spilled out onto the sidewalk. The air smelled faintly of summer—warm pavement, cut grass, and fried food from street vendors somewhere nearby. Steven kept glancing sideways at her.

She walked with easy confidence, heels clicking against the concrete, dress catching in the breeze. Her hair had mostly come loose, but she didn’t seem to care. She was humming something under her breath—something soft, almost too low to catch. He shoved his hands into his pockets, still feeling slightly overdressed for a date he technically hadn’t earned.

“So,” he ventured, “Do I get to know where we’re going, or is this a kidnapping situation?”

She looked over her shoulder with a grin. “You said you liked beans.”

“I did say that.”

“Well,” she said, gesturing ahead, “You’re in luck.”

They rounded the corner onto a quieter side street, dimmer and less polished than the main drag. And there, nestled between a dry cleaner and a corner off-license, stood a narrow little falafel shop lit up with warm yellow bulbs and hand-painted lettering on the window. Inside, a man in an apron was leaning over the counter, chatting with someone in the back, music playing faintly over a tinny speaker.

Steven’s eyes lit up. “You are kidding.”

Mitzi just smiled and held the door open. “Best falafel in the city. Open late. Always smells like cumin and salvation.

“This is brilliant,” he whispered.

“Told you,” she said, brushing past him as she headed toward the door. “My treat, since I made you almost eat steak.”

“You didn’t make me,” he said with a laugh. “I was emotionally prepared to suffer.”

“Steven,” she said, without looking up, “You asked me what kind of steak was my favorite cow.”

He paused. “Yeah, alright,” he winced a bit. "That's fair.”

They stepped inside the falafel shop, the warm scent of spices and sizzling oil wrapping around them like a blanket. The place was small—just a few booths, a chalkboard menu above the counter, and the low hum of a fridge in the corner. Steven was still looking around when Mitzi stepped up to the counter without hesitation and launched straight into Arabic.

The man behind the register nodded along, completely unfazed, jotting things down as she spoke smoothly and without pause. Her tone was calm, confident, like it was second nature. She pointed to a few items behind the glass, exchanged a few more words, then handed over some cash before stepping aside. 

Steven stared at her. “You speak Arabic,” he said slowly, as if saying it out loud would help him process it.

Mitzi turned to him with a small smile. “Yeah.”

“Like… fluently.”

“Mhmm.”

“I didn’t—how did I not know that?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You never asked.”

“I—well, no, I guess I didn’t,” he said, flustered. “Still! That was amazing,” he grinned at her. “You didn’t even have to think about it.”

She shrugged, casually leaning against the counter. “I grew up speaking it,” she informed him. “My dad’s Egyptian. My mom’s American, but we lived in Cairo most of my childhood.”

Steven nodded slowly, taking that in. “Right. Yeah,” he said softly. “I thought I heard something in your voice. Like, a hint of something.”

“Accent’s a bit of a mess,” Mitzi said, not sounding the least bit sorry about it, but being truthful. “Bit Egyptian, bit Midwest, bit museum-tour-guide-on-autopilot.”

He laughed. “That last one’s pretty specific.”

“Tell me about it,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Once you say the phrase ‘calcite canopic jar’ enough times, it starts bleeding into your casual conversations.”

Steven laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, before his gaze caught hers—and in that instant, something flickered there, a glint so familiar it pulled Marc to mind at once.

“Seriously, though,” Steven said. “That was impressive.”

Mitzi gave a smile and a small shrug, but there was a flicker of pride in her eyes. “It’s just falafel.”

“No,” he said with a grin. “It’s impressively ordered falafel.”

𓂀

They left the falafel shop with warm food bundled in paper and napkins stuffed into their pockets. The park across the street was quiet this time of night, the noise of the city dulled by trees and old stone paths. Lanterns on tall black posts cast golden pools of light across benches and low hedges, their glow flickering slightly in the summer breeze. Steven followed Mitzi onto the grass, where they found a bench beneath a wide-limbed tree near the edge of a little fountain. The water splashed gently, and somewhere nearby, a radio played something soft and jazzy from a distant window.

Mitzi unwrapped her falafel with practiced ease. “This was a good idea.”

Steven nodded in agreement before he smiled and said, “I was genuinely worried I’d peak at ‘accidentally vegan side dishes.’” She laughed, took a bite, and gestured for him to do the same.

They ate in a companionable silence, the kind that wrapped around them without a trace of awkwardness or hurry—just simple, unspoken ease.

Then, as Steven wiped his hands on a napkin, he said, “I had a dream about you last night.”

Mitzi paused mid-bite. “Oh?” Her tone was light, but her shoulders went just the tiniest bit still.

Steven laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah—it was wild. Proper bizarre. We were running around in the Alps or something, being chased by cultists.”

Her brow lifted, eyes narrowing slightly.

He continued, animated now. “There were logs rolling down the hill, and I think I blacked out at one point? And then there was a van—oh! With a giant cupcake on top. No idea why. And you tackled me off a cliff. Very dramatic.”

Mitzi blinked. “Sounds intense.”

Steven grinned, biting into his wrap again. “Right? I mean, who dreams that specific?” He chuckled. “I probably watched a weird movie and forgot. But you were there. You were… like, fierce. Protective. Kind of terrifying, actually. In a cool way.”

She let out a small breath, something like a chuckle, but a touch too controlled. “You’ve got a wild imagination.”

“Tell me about it,” he said with a sheepish shrug. “Sometimes I wake up and genuinely question reality,” he sighed. “Makes working in a museum feel tame.”

She smiled, eyes flicking back to the fountain.

“Still,” he added, softer now, “It was a nice dream. You were… sort of heroic.”

Silence settled between them again—not weighted, but thoughtful. In the wash of golden light, Mitzi turned to look at him, her expression a puzzle, warm and elusive all at once.

“Well,” she said, voice low, “Thanks for dreaming me cool.”

“Anytime,” Steven said, smiling softly.

The glow from the park lights shimmered off the fountain nearby, casting golden reflections on the path beneath their bench. The night was quiet but full—buzzing gently with summer warmth and the hum of distant traffic.

Mitzi glanced sideways at him. He was relaxed now, in that way only Steven could be—shoulders slightly hunched, legs together, arms resting on his knees with the half-eaten falafel still in hand. And yet… his eyes flicked toward her every so often, just to check she was still there.

She liked that about him. How present he was. How he watched her without expectation.

She took a slow breath, then leaned over and gently rested her head on his shoulder. Steven stiffened just for a moment, surprised—but then eased into it, like it made perfect sense.

“Comfy?” he asked quietly.

“Mmhmm,” she murmured.

And she was. But not in the way she wanted to be. Because this—him—was safe. Sweet. Uncomplicated. And it wasn’t real. Not really. He didn’t know what he was. Who he was. What they were. He didn’t know about Marc. Or Khonshu. Or what was coming. He didn’t know that she was here not because she could be—but because she had to be. Because the gods were watching. Because someone had to keep him from digging too deep. And it had to be her.

Still, she closed her eyes for a moment and let herself pretend. Pretend this was a normal night. Pretend she could let this happen. Pretend it wouldn’t break him when the truth finally surfaced.

Steven let out a soft breath beside her. “This is nice.”

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “It is.”

The wind moved through the leaves above them, brushing cool against her skin. She didn’t move. Neither did he. And for a little while longer, she let herself rest there—shoulder to shoulder, warmth to warmth—beneath the park lights, in the quiet hush of a moment that couldn’t last.

But for now, it did.

Chapter Text

LIGHTS FLICKERING TO LIFE OVERHEAD, buzzing faintly as they chased away the last of the morning shadows, the museum opened like it always did. The murmur of early arrivals floated in from the front desk—security guards trading half-asleep greetings, the rattle of a supply cart wheeling across the floor. In the distance, the espresso machine in the lobby hissed and spit like an angry cat, releasing the bitter scent of scorched beans into the stale air.

Mitzi stood alone in the back hallway by the staff lockers, fingers curled around the warped edge of her locker door. It always stuck on the hinge—just enough to catch her sleeve and threaten to tear it clean if she yanked too fast. She didn’t yank. She’d fought this battle before.

Her thermos, tucked in the crook of her arm, burned faintly against her side. She hadn’t had time to drink from it—not after sleeping through her second alarm, brushing her teeth with one shoe on, then barely catching the bus. Her eyes still felt sore. Her chest, too.

She reached for her coat.

Then—

“He is near.”

The voice did not echo. It didn’t need to.

It threaded through her like dark water—slow, inevitable, bone-deep. Her lungs caught halfway through a breath. Her spine stiffened.

“He stirs the air. He walks in your shadow.”

Mitzi turned her head just slightly. She didn’t need to look. She already knew.

Nephthys stood at the edge of the hallway light, half-submerged in shadow—more silhouette than form, a shape draped in absence. The flickering overhead bulbs made her seem like a trick of the eye, something imagined in grief or reflection. But she was not imagined. Mitzi had learned that the hard way.

Dust drifted lazily through the shafts of light above her head like incense smoke in a forgotten shrine. Her eyes, black and bottomless, were fixed on Mitzi. Unblinking. Calm.

“Now?” Mitzi asked, her voice quiet and small.

Nephthys didn’t answer. She only watched.

“Soon.”

That was all. And then she was gone.

No swirl of wind. No dimming of the lights. No sound of footsteps leaving. Just… absence. So sudden and sharp that the air seemed to thicken behind her.

Mitzi stood still for another beat.

Her fingers lingered on the fabric of her coat sleeve. Her jaw was tight. Her throat felt dry, like the inside of a clay jar left too long in the sun.

Slowly, mechanically, she finished pulling her coat free from the locker. The metal squealed faintly. She didn’t bother closing the door, didn’t bother locking it.

She just walked out into the museum’s inner halls—her shoulders tense, her heartbeat suddenly too loud in her ears.

𓂀

The day moved like something submerged—muted and murky, as if time itself were dragging its feet underwater.

Mitzi kept going, kept smiling, kept delivering facts about burial rites and scarabs and the weight of the soul. Her tone was steady. Her gestures precise. She led the tours like clockwork. If anyone noticed the edge behind her eyes, they didn’t mention it. But beneath the surface, everything felt wrong. Tilted. Off-center.

Her mind wasn’t in the galleries. It was watching the corners.

She couldn’t stop scanning. Doorways. Blind spots. Reflections in glass cases. She caught herself looking behind her more than once. Her hands felt colder than they should’ve. She kept adjusting her sleeves, tightening her coat, as if something might slip beneath her skin if she left any part of herself exposed.

She smiled at a little girl in a school uniform when she asked if the mummy was haunted.

“No,” Mitzi said. “Not like in the movies,” she’d smiled. “But he’s very old. And old things remember.”

She didn’t realize how strange that sounded until the teacher gave her a look.

He walks in your shadow.

The phrase played over and over in her mind like a drumbeat—soft, insistent, looping. She didn’t know if she was the shadow or the bait. And she wasn’t sure which scared her more.

She made laps around the museum without meaning to, always ending up within a few yards of the gift shop. Always with an excuse—dropping something off, checking flyers, passing through.

It wasn’t until the third or fourth time that Steven noticed.

He was rearranging a tray of postcards when she walked past again, then leaned casually against the doorframe, arms folded.

“Not that I’m complaining,” he said, glancing at her around the edge of the spinner rack, “but I think I’ve seen you more times today than I’ve seen the cash register.”

Mitzi blinked. Her thoughts had been a mile away. She hadn’t even realized she’d stopped walking.

“Sorry,” she said, blinking back into the present. “Didn’t mean to hover.”

“No!” Steven said quickly, standing up straighter. “I just meant—well, you’re not bothering me. Not even close.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. His voice dipped, a little sheepish. “It’s nice, actually. I like having you around.”

That made her pause.

The comment caught her off guard—not because it was inappropriate, but because of how genuine it sounded. Like he meant it more than he even realized. Like it had been sitting behind his teeth all day, waiting to slip out.

Her face softened. The tightness in her chest loosened just enough for a smile to surface. This one was different. Less automatic. Less guarded.

“Thanks, Steven.”

He smiled back, small and crooked, as if embarrassed for having said it, but pleased all the same.

𓂀

By that evening, the museum had emptied the way it always did—bit by bit, piece by piece, until the only things left were the echoes.

Security radios buzzed. Final announcements crackled through the speaker system. Doors swung shut behind the last group of stragglers. The stillness that followed was a kind of hum, low and reverent.

Steven was halfway through locking the main gate when he caught sight of her again—outside now, standing beneath the soft yellow glow of a streetlamp.

She didn’t look cold, though her coat was wrapped tightly around her. Her arms were folded, her weight shifted onto one foot, and her eyes weren’t focused on anything. Not the street. Not the traffic. Just… watching. Listening.

She looked like someone waiting for a sign. Or a signal only she could hear.

He finished securing the latch, then stepped outside, tugging the heavy door shut behind him.

“Didn’t think you were still here,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

She turned to look at him.

There was something distant in her expression, something half-drawn—but it softened when she saw him.

“Thought I’d walk with you,” she said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Steven tried not to smile too much.

He failed completely. “Brilliant,” he said, a little breathlessly.

They walked together down the quiet street, side by side beneath the purple hush of evening. The air smelled faintly of rain, the kind that hadn’t fallen yet but threatened to. Trees rustled overhead, their leaves shifting in slow waves. A distant horn echoed somewhere far off, already fading.

Mitzi didn’t say much. Neither did he. But the silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It pulsed with something unspoken. Something close.

Her shoulder brushed his arm once. Then again. She didn’t pull away.

Steven didn’t move, didn’t adjust. He let it stay.

And maybe—just maybe—he leaned in too.

The tube station was half-empty, lit with that strange, artificial glow that always made everything feel slightly too quiet.

The train screeched into the platform. They stepped inside together, finding a corner by the door.

Mitzi stood beside the pole, her hand wrapped loosely around it, her other arm folded across her middle. Her reflection hovered in the window—dim, sharp-eyed, unreadable.

Steven snuck a glance at her, then quickly looked away.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said softly.

“So have you.”

A beat.

He took a breath. “Just wondering if you’re… I don’t know. Freaked out. By me.”

She turned to look at him then, really look—head tilted slightly, eyes steady.

Then she stepped in.

Just a little closer.

Her voice was low. Confident. “No. I’m not.”

Something about the way she said it, unapologetic, intimate—it short-circuited the rest of his thoughts.

He swallowed, unsure what to do with the heat in his face.

“Oh. Good.”

The train jolted.

Mitzi’s balance shifted. She stumbled forward—just slightly—and Steven instinctively caught her, one hand at her waist, the other gripping the pole behind her. Her hands landed lightly on his chest.

They both froze.

The moment stretched, breathless. Her body was warm. She didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

He looked down at her. Her gaze was already on his, unflinching.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

She nodded.

But she didn’t move.

Not for several long, silent seconds.

The hum of the train became the only sound. The overhead lights flickered once.

Finally, she stepped back—only just. The air between them felt charged. Thin.

They rode the rest of the way in silence. But it was a different kind of silence now.

The kind that listened.

When they reached his building, Steven hesitated by the stairwell.

Then: “D’you want to come up? Just for a bit. I’ve got tea. Or… water. Or awkward conversation.”

Mitzi gave a faint smile. Not teasing. Just steady. Sure.

“Yeah,” she said. “I do.”

Steven flicked on the light as they stepped into the flat, casting a warm, golden wash over the books, maps, and soft, lived-in chaos. Mitzi paused just inside the door, taking it all in with quiet curiosity.

It was exactly the kind of place she’d imagined him having. Cozy. Messy. A little too full of history books and forgotten teacups.

Steven moved ahead, speaking over his shoulder. “Sorry for the state of things—I wasn’t expecting company. Usually it’s just me and Gus.”

She was about to ask who Gus was when her eyes drifted—instinctively—to the bed.

She saw it.

Just for a second.

A thick strap, looped under the edge of the duvet. An ankle restraint. Half-covered. The metal buckle caught the light as he turned—

Steven lunged, just a little too fast, yanking the blanket over it in what he clearly thought was a smooth, casual motion.

Mitzi looked away immediately, giving him the dignity of thinking he’d hidden it in time.

Her gaze wandered across the opposite wall, toward a cluttered bookshelf, then up to a brass lamp shaped like a cat. “You’ve got Bastet,” she said, half-smiling. “Nice touch.”

Steven, flustered but pretending everything was fine, followed her line of sight. “Yeah. Found it at a charity shop. Thought she might keep me safe or something.

The soft blue glow of the tank cast flickering light across her face as she leaned in, watching the goldfish make another slow, spiraling pass.

Steven appeared beside her, gently setting a mug of tea in her hands.

“That’s Gus,” he said, gesturing toward the tank.

She didn’t respond right away. Her eyes followed the fish’s easy movement through the water, calm, rhythmic, unbothered.

“He used to have one fin,” Steven continued, sipping his tea. “I think. Now he’s got two. Or maybe I’ve got it backwards. Probably just remembering it wrong.”

Mitzi's throat tightened.

The memory hit like a cold hand closing over her lungs.

The Alps. The blood. The silence of the flat when they returned. How she’d kicked off her boots, numb and shaking, only to find the fish tank still and dark. Gus floating belly-up beneath the surface.

She’d stared at it, stunned. That quiet, stupid little symbol of peace—gone. The one thing in Steven’s life that didn’t lie. The one constant. And now it was dead too.

“You killed the fucking fish,” she’d snapped.

Marc had barely looked up. “I’ll just get another one. He won’t know.”

He won’t know.

She’d said nothing then. Just stared at the tank. At the glass. At the broken world she’d stepped back into.

And now…

Now, Steven stood beside her with gentle eyes and an uncertain smile, telling her this fish had changed.

She swallowed hard.

Said nothing.

Instead, she forced a smile and took a slow sip of tea.

“He seems peaceful,” she said quietly.

Steven smiled, a little bashful. “Yeah. Bit of a mystery, though. I swear he switches sides on me when I’m not looking.”

She nodded, still watching the fish, guilt swirling under her ribs like ink in water.

She’d been here.

Sat on that couch.

She’d been in that bed.

And now she stood in the same place, with a different man wearing the same face, looking at her like she was someone new.

“Tea?” he asked, after a beat, just a little too quickly.

She turned to him and offered a warm, measured smile. “Sure. I’d love some.”

He moved around the small kitchenette with practiced ease, the soft clink of the kettle against the countertop breaking the quiet between them. Steam curled up from the spout as he poured the hot water over the tea bag, the faint scent of chamomile filling the air. When he handed her the cup, his fingers brushed hers—brief but deliberate. She caught the subtle tension beneath the motion, a silent promise wrapped in something tentative, something unspoken. She took the cup, warming her hands around the ceramic as she met his eyes again. For a moment, the room felt smaller, charged with the quiet weight of things left unsaid.

“Thanks,” she said softly.

He smiled and settled into the chair across from her, the worn wood creaking softly beneath his weight. The kettle’s hiss had faded, leaving the room wrapped in a quiet hush. As he poured the tea, his movements were deliberate but relaxed, the small ritual grounding him. He watched her closely, eyes tracing the way her fingers curled around the cup, the slight tension in her shoulders despite the calm she tried to wear. After a moment, he spoke, voice low and steady.

“You know, I’ve been watching you.”

"Oh?" Mitzi arched an eyebrow, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “Should I start charging admission?”

He blinked, caught off guard, cheeks flushing faintly. “Well, I—uh, I didn’t mean it like that.”

She laughed softly, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Alright, Mr. Watcher," she chuckled. "What have you noticed? Don’t tell me you’re expecting me to be some great mystery.”

He cleared his throat, regaining composure. “Not a mystery. More like... layers. Things you don’t say out loud.”

Mitzi tilted her head, curious despite herself. “Layers, huh? Sounds profound. But I’m not holding my breath.”

He smiled into his cup. “Alright, then. You like being quiet. But not because you don’t have things to say—just because most people don’t deserve to hear them.”

Her fingers stilled against the ceramic.

That one landed.

Mitzi didn’t respond right away. Her eyes drifted to the window, to the glow of passing streetlights sliding like ghosts along the wall.

Steven shifted, his tone softening. “Sorry. Was that too much?”

“No,” she said. “Just… true.”

Silence again. This one calmer.

“I like old horror movies,” she said suddenly, almost like she was throwing him a lifeline. “The ones with too much fog and screaming.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“Mm.”

“Like Hammer films?”

She nodded.

Steven lit up. “I’ve got The Mummy somewhere—Peter Cushing, 1959. Absolutely ridiculous. You’d love it.”

She smirked faintly. “Would I?”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning back against the couch. “No one bleeds properly, the monster walks like he’s on stilts, and every other line is someone screaming ‘Don’t go in there!’ while immediately going in there.”

“That does sound like something I’d like.”

“See?” he said triumphantly. “Not so mysterious.”

She tilted her head at him. “You think movies make people easier to read?”

“No. But they make people easier to sit quietly with.”

That gave her pause. Her eyes softened. “That’s a nice thought.”

He shrugged. “I have them sometimes.”

The tea had long gone lukewarm.

Neither of them seemed to notice.

Steven sat angled toward her now, elbow resting along the back of the couch, his body leaning in more than he probably meant to. One leg drawn up beneath him, socked foot tucked beneath his knee. His mug was still in his hand, balanced precariously on the rise of his thigh, but he hadn’t taken a sip in ages.

Mitzi sat near the armrest, curled inward just slightly. Not withdrawn—just folded in, like she’d softened over the course of the evening without realizing it. One leg tucked up, the other foot brushing the floor. Her fingers ghosted over the rim of her mug as if out of habit, though her gaze was far away, unfocused, warm.

The conversation had long since thinned to a thread, but the silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt… aware. Intentional.

Their quiet had become its own kind of closeness—soft and heavy and alive. Like something unspoken was being woven between them, delicate and unsure, but undeniable.

Outside, the streetlamp buzzed faintly, casting a golden wash across the sheer curtains. Inside, the soft burble of the fish tank gave the room a kind of rhythm. Gentle. Living. A heartbeat tucked just out of view.

Mitzi looked over at him.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t have to.

Her eyes found his and just stayed there, half-lidded, unreadable. Like she was waiting for something to settle inside her.

Steven’s breath hitched, shallow in his throat. He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The space between them felt impossibly small. And impossibly wide.

She tilted her head a fraction, barely perceptible. But her body followed just a touch. She leaned in, slow and tentative. Not enough to close the distance. Not quite. But enough to test it. To ask a question without forming words.

He responded before he realized he had. A slow, mirrored lean. A quiet offering. Just enough to feel the warmth of her skin brush the air between them. Their foreheads nearly touched. The moment hung.

Their breathing matched without effort—quiet, shallow, unsure. She smelled faintly like tea and old paper, like the museum’s dust had followed her home and settled into her sleeves.

Mitzi’s gaze flicked to his mouth. Not long. Just enough to betray her.

Steven’s heartbeat so loud in his ears it felt like the whole flat must’ve heard it. 

She exhaled—softly, almost soundlessly—as if letting go of something she hadn’t realized she was holding.

She could have kissed him. He would’ve let her. Would’ve kissed her back like it meant something. Like it already did.

But instead, she let her eyes linger on his for one more suspended heartbeat… then pulled away.

Slow. Careful.

The spell didn’t break exactly. But it folded back in on itself. Tucked away.

Steven blinked, finally. Sat back too, just slightly, his posture adjusting like he was setting something fragile down.

Mitzi stood. She set her mug down gently on the coffee table. It clinked softly against the wood.

“I should go,” she said, barely above a whisper.

But the way she said it—like it hurt a little—made it clear she didn’t want to.

Steven nodded, eyes still on her. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”

She hesitated, as if waiting for him to stop her. He didn’t. But he stood with her. Mug still in hand, though he no longer remembered why. His fingers flexed around the ceramic like it was the only thing anchoring him.

Mitzi paused by the door. Her hand rested lightly on the frame, her fingers tracing a small arc into the wood. She looked back over her shoulder.

“I liked this,” she said softly.

There was no armor in her voice. No smirk. Just honesty, raw and careful. Almost like she wasn’t sure if she should’ve said it.

Steven’s chest tightened. The words caught behind his teeth. “Me too,” he said finally. Quiet, but clear. “A lot.”

She smiled. Not a wide one—just a small curve of the mouth, barely there. Something fragile. Something real. Then she turned and stepped into the hallway.

Steven followed her to the door out of instinct. He leaned against the frame as she walked slowly toward the elevator. Her coat wrapped tight around her, hands stuffed in her pockets, shoulders hunched like she was bracing against more than the night air.

She didn’t look back at first. Just moved slowly down the corridor, footsteps soft against the old tile.

He didn’t call after her. He just… watched.

When she reached the lift, she pressed the button and turned to face him. Their eyes met again across the hallway’s hush. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Neither did she.

The elevator dinged softly. The doors slid open. She stepped in backward, still watching him. A small breath left her lips. She raised a hand—just a little. Not quite a wave. More like a half-finished goodbye.

Steven lifted his fingers slightly in return, but didn’t move. Didn’t step closer. The doors began to close. Still, he didn’t look away. Not until she was gone. 

The elevator shut with a quiet whisper. Steven stood in the open doorway of his flat for a long moment, staring at the place where she’d been.

Then, finally, he let his hand drop to his side. And closed the door.

Chapter Text

IT WAS MIDMORNING AND THE MUSEUM was beginning to hum—tour groups drifting in like slow tides, schoolchildren herded toward the education wing, the faint static of a portable speaker explaining Ra’s solar barque in five different languages.

Mitzi was adjusting a stack of visitor maps by the sarcophagus exhibit when she heard Steven’s voice, sharp with unease, carry across the entrance hall.

“…he was at the bus stop.. Just standing there. Watching.”

She frowned and moved slowly toward the edge of the corridor. Around the corner, Steven was standing stiffly by the security desk, speaking to JB, who was half-listening while scrolling on his phone. Steven’s eyes kept darting toward the front doors.

“I’m just saying, maybe keep an eye out,” Steven said, shifting from foot to foot.

JB didn’t look up. “Anyone who wants to come in, can. It’s free.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Steven said, running a hand through his curls, “but—”

“Stevie,” came Donna’s voice, bright and clipped. She emerged from the gift shop holding a precarious armload of plastic-wrapped Anubis plushies and dusty staff t-shirts. “Can you take these downstairs?”

Steven looked at her for half a second, clearly weighing something. “Just a second,” he muttered, turning back to JB. “I know, just keep an eye—”

“Take these downstairs,” Donna repeated, firmer now, the weight of annoyance pressing down on every syllable.

Mitzi stepped in quickly, her voice low but firm. “Donna, give us a second, yeah?”

Donna sighed, clearly ready to argue. “Mitzi, I don’t have time for—”

“Just a minute,” Mitzi repeated, her tone not sharp, but final . Her hand came up and gently touched Steven’s arm, steering him away from the security desk and toward a quieter alcove between exhibits. 

Donna huffed behind them, “You’re still on inventory tonight, Stevie!” but she didn’t follow.

Mitzi didn’t let go of Steven’s arm until they were well out of sight of the front desk. She led him around a quiet corner of the museum, past a towering Sekhmet statue and into a tucked-away alcove of Greco-Roman artifacts where few visitors ever lingered. Here, the light was dimmer, the silence thicker.

Steven was still glancing over his shoulder.

“Steven,” Mitzi said gently, stepping in front of him. “Hey. It’s just us. Can you explain again? Slowly this time.”

He shook his head, swallowing hard. “I—I can’t. I don’t know where to start. I feel like I’m going insane .”

“You’re not.” Her voice was soft but steady. “Start from last night. After I left.”

Steven rubbed his hands down his face and took a shaky breath. “Okay. So, I couldn’t sleep. Nothing new, right? But I got up to stretch and I was walking past the side table by my bed when I noticed these—scratches. On the floor. Like someone had dragged the table a few inches, then pushed it back. I thought maybe I’d done it in my sleep again, but it looked... deliberate.”

He was speaking faster now, his eyes darting past her even as he spoke.

“So I moved the table. And when I looked up—near the ceiling, just behind it—there was this brick. Slightly off. Like it’d been pulled out and stuffed back.”

Mitzi’s fingers twitched at her side.

Steven huffed a breath. “I climbed up and moved it. And there was a phone hidden there. An old one. Burner-style. It had two names in the contacts: Layla and Mariam. Loads of missed calls from Layla.”

Mitzi’s chest tightened.

“I didn’t recognize any of it. I—I thought maybe I was being set up, or hacked, or maybe it was me and I’ve just gone completely mad. Then—then the voice started.”

Her brows lifted. “Voice?”

“Yeah,” Steven whispered. “Like my own voice, but… American? Canadian? He kept calling me but he was nowhere.”

He shook his head, pale and sweating. “I ran. I didn’t know what else to do. I left the flat to get some air, went into the lift. Just… normal, right? But when the doors opened—he was there.”

“Who?”

“A man. Or—something like one. He was massive. Seven feet, maybe more. Robes. Towering. And his head—his head —”

Steven’s voice cracked. He looked at her, desperate for her to believe him.

“It was a bird skull, Mitzi. Big. White. Like a stork. Just bone and shadows and eyes. I blinked and he was gone.”

Mitzi stayed calm. Barely. Her pulse had begun to rise beneath her ribs, steady but growing.

Steven pressed on, voice shaking. “Then I woke up. On the bus. I don’t remember getting on. Just… came to halfway across the bridge.”

She stared at him. “And then?”

Steven took a breath. “And then I saw him. The man from the Alps. The one with the cane. The one in the village. He was across the street from the bus stop. Just… watching me. Like he knew. Like he’d been waiting.”

Mitzi’s mouth parted slightly. She closed her eyes and exhaled. “Oh gods.”

When she opened them again, Steven wasn’t looking at her anymore.

He was staring over her shoulder—eyes wide and focused.

“I—I have to check something,” he said suddenly, already turning. “Excuse me—just—sorry—”

Mitzi darted after him, the echo of her boots muffled by the museum’s stone floors and carpeted hall. 

“Steven—Steven, wait—”

She kept her voice low, urgent but not loud, a whisper-plea trailing in the space between sculptures and shadows. He didn’t look back. Just kept moving, head low, pace quickening. Like he was drawn forward by something invisible—or running from it.

 “Steven,” she hissed again, sharper now. “Please.”

 Mitzi wove after Steven through the corridor, trying to keep her voice low and calm despite the edge in it. “Steven—please. Just stop a second—”

He didn’t seem to hear her. Or maybe he couldn’t. His pace was quick and uneven, one hand braced on the wall as he glanced frantically down each branching hallway.

“Steven—wait,” she tried again, a whisper this time, just as her hand caught his sleeve.

He spun around to face her—and froze.

A voice drifted lazily out of the gallery’s shadows.“So you really do work here.”

Mitzi’s stomach dropped.

Harrow stepped out from behind a large sarcophagus, hands calmly folded over his staff. “And you too, Mrs. Spector. Or was it Ms. El-Faouly? No… it’s Ms. Elle here, isn’t it?” He smiled, too warmly. “Forgive me. So many aliases to keep track of.”

Steven blinked at Mitzi, confused. “What…?”

But she didn’t answer. Her body shifted just slightly toward him, reflexively—then stopped short.

Harrow’s gaze drifted to Steven. “I’ll admit—I assumed Steven Grant was just another fiction. Imagine my surprise when I find you here. So polite. So punctual.” His fingers twitched.

Before Mitzi could react, two museum staffers appeared from a side corridor—familiar uniforms, unfamiliar eyes. Cultists. Hidden in plain sight.

One moved beside her, grip tightening around her upper arm. The other stepped behind her—silent, steady.

She didn’t resist. Not overtly. Her breath slowed. Her jaw set. No sudden moves. No outbursts. The Ennead frowned on shows of power in mortal spaces—and Nephthys, silent and heavy behind her ribs, did not stir.

“Don’t,” she said under her breath. “Not here.”

“Mitzi?” Steven’s voice cracked. He looked at the man holding her, alarm blooming on his face. “What are they—what’s going on?”

“Steven,” she said softly, meeting his eyes. “Don’t run. But you need to listen to me now.”

“Ah-ah.” Harrow stepped between them, smiling at Steven like a teacher with a nervous student. “No need for panic. I’m here to help you.”

Steven backed up a step.

Mitzi tensed, but couldn’t move to shield him. The grip on her arms tightened subtly. They weren’t dragging her—just holding her still. Just far enough.

“We’re simply having a conversation,” Harrow continued. “One your friend has worked very hard to avoid. Haven’t you, Mariam?”

Steven’s eyes flicked back to her—confused. Worried. 

She couldn’t answer. Her muscles bunched against the hands at her arms, but she didn’t break. Didn’t beg.

And then the staffers at her side began gently guiding her back. Not a struggle. Just pressure. Just enough to part her from him.

“Steven,” she said again, louder this time, more urgent. “Don’t listen to him. Don’t—”

Steven shook his head, saying, “I don’t—I don’t have your bloody beetle, I swear—” 

“Oh no,” Harrow said smoothly. “The scarab doesn’t belong to me.” He motioned gently toward a gilded case across the room, where an ancient funerary panel stood, painted with brilliant ochre and faded blue. “It belongs to her.”

 Steven turned, confused, toward the display. The stylized figure of Ammit was depicted there—crocodile head and all.

“Do you know Ammit?” Harrow asked, tone deceptively light.

Mitzi’s laugh was sharp, ragged. “Does he know Ammit? The goddess who’s been imprisoned in stone for over two thousand years? The one who tried to wipe out humanity?”

Harrow huffed a quiet chuckle. “She grew tired, that’s all. Tired of waiting. Of letting evil flourish while the gods did nothing. Her only crime… was impatience.” 

He began to circle toward Steven, measured steps slow and deliberate. “But tell me—would you wait to weed a garden until after the roses are dead?”

Mitzi tried to move again—instinct, rage—but was held firm. “A wild garden needs no weeding,” she bit out, her voice low and cold.

That made Harrow smile.
“The justice of Ammit surveys the whole of our lives. Past, present, future… She knows what we've done. What we will do.”

Steven took another step back, nearly tripping over a bench. “Right. Okay. Books must’ve left that part out—”

He lunged toward the nearest exit—but one of Harrow’s men stepped into the doorway and slammed it shut. The lock clicked, loud in the still air.

Mitzi flinched at the sound, twisting—but another cultist was already barring the gallery’s far end. The museum had become a cage.

“You see,” Harrow said gently, stepping closer to Steven, “had Ammit been free, she would have prevented so much suffering. Hitler. The destruction he wrought. Gone before it began.”

“That's nice,” Mitzi snapped. “Holding the Holocaust over a Jew. How inclusive of you.”

Steven’s jaw clenched.

“Nero. The Armenian genocide. Pol Pot…”

Steven nodded too fast. “Yep. Yep. Not nice people. Very bad.”

“She was betrayed,” Harrow went on, like he hadn’t heard. “By the other gods. Their indolence. Their fear. Even by her own Avatar.”

“Avatar,” Steven echoed. “Right. Blue people. Love that film.”

“What I mean is—”

“Oh, you mean the anime, yeah?”

“Steven,” Harrow said sharply now. “Stop it.”

Steven’s hand found the edge of a display case. “Are you going to kill me?”

The lights flickered once. Then again. Buzzing. Wavering.

Harrow glanced up. Waited. The lights stilled. 

He turned back. Calm again. Circling Steven now. Closer. Too close.

“It’s maddening, isn’t it?” he said softly. Not to Steven exactly—but past him. Through him. “The voice in your head. Relentless. Forever unsatisfied.”

Steven flinched. His eyes darted around like something might be watching. Like someone might be.

Mitzi’s voice cut through, strained with fury: “Watch yourself.”

But Harrow didn’t even blink. His smile didn’t shift. And his eyes—his eyes—never left Steven.

Harrow’s voice dipped lower, quiet and knowing. “No matter how hard you try to please…”

 He stepped closer, slower now—measured, like a lion not quite ready to pounce. His sleeve slid back with a casual motion, revealing the dark scales etched into his forearm. They shimmered faintly, unnatural and shifting.

“…it devours you, until there's nothing left but a hollow shell.”

Steven swallowed hard, breath catching. His hand gripped the edge of the display tighter.

Harrow’s eyes softened—mocking sympathy. “The more you ask for help,” he said, reaching out, “the more you begin to sound like the boy who cried wolf.”

He took Steven’s arm in both hands.

Steven flinched, trying to pull back, panic sparking in his eyes. “I—I can’t help you,” he stammered.

“I am trying to help you,” Harrow said, with quiet finality. His grip was firm but not cruel. Not yet.

“Back off!” Mitzi barked, struggling forward in the cultists’ grasp. She twisted violently now, her boots skidding on the gallery floor. “Don’t touch him!”

Harrow didn’t even glance at her.

Steven’s chest heaved. "I saw you kill that woman in the Alps.”

Harrow’s expression barely changed. “I only told her,” he murmured, as he placed the crocodile-headed staff gently across Steven’s arms, aligning it like a ritual, “what millions more will soon learn.”

He brought Steven’s wrists together—slow, ritualistic, as if measuring something unseen.

“ Stop it! ” Mitzi shouted, voice rising past fury now, deeper than rage. It rippled with something else—something older . 

Her eyes burned with it.

Still, Harrow ignored her.

“Do you want to know the truth?” he asked Steven, low and soft and terribly calm.

Steven didn’t stop him. He couldn’t. His limbs had gone rigid, breath shallow, his eyes locked on the scales carved into Harrow’s arm. They moved .

Back and forth, back and forth—never settling. The crocodile-headed staff rocked gently between his wrists like a pendulum, its carved wood unnervingly warm.

Mitzi’s breath caught. She could feel the bruising grasp of the cultists now—digging into her arms as she struggled again, real struggle now, desperate and wild.

“Stop it— stop it! ” she snapped. “Let him go!”

 But her voice sounded far away. Like it was echoing from the bottom of a tomb. Because she knew what was coming. She’d seen what Ammit’s judgment did. And Marc —Marc was not innocent.

She could see Steven’s hands trembling, could feel the divine weight pressing down between the two of them—and she panicked. Not just for Steven. For Marc. Her Marc, inside him.

“No—no no no—” she gasped, heart pounding. “Please— please don’t—”

But then—Harrow stared . Still. Frozen. His brow furrowed as he looked down.

The scales didn’t settle. Didn’t tip. They rocked back and forth, restless and relentless, caught between poles like they couldn’t decide what to make of the soul before them. Steven just stood there, wide-eyed and white as chalk.

“There is…” Harrow whispered, awe softening his voice. “ Chaos in you.”

And then—

A loud click behind them. The doors to the gallery swung open. Light. Chatter. Tourists.

Three families, a gaggle of schoolchildren, and a bored docent talking about mummification methods swept into the room, their voices bouncing harmlessly through the chamber.

The hands on Mitzi’s arms fell away. Casual. Like they’d never been there. She staggered. Recovered. Chest heaving. Heart racing.

She was already moving. No hesitation. 

Crossing the space with a predator’s focus, she grabbed Steven by the wrist—tight, grounding—and hissed, “ Come on. ”

He went without a word. She pulled him—not quite running, not quite walking—just moving , fast and sure, across the floor and out of the room, past the sarcophagus, past the display case of Ammit, past Harrow—who didn’t stop them.

He just watched them go.

Chapter Text

THE MUSEUM WAS CLOSED, QUIET as a tomb. Not even the hum of the air vents seemed to stir. The last of the cleaners had packed up an hour ago—she’d heard their rolling carts, the scuff of their trainers, a tired chuckle echoing off the marble. But now even those faint signs of life were gone. Only the low security lights remained, casting long, uneven shadows across the floor.

Now there was nothing. No footsteps. No chatter.

Just the soft buzz of the low-security lights humming overhead, casting long, uneven shadows across the vast museum floor. Darkness filled every corner between the pedestals and display cases, swallowing the edges of exhibits in a way that felt… wrong.

She stood near the threshold of the Egyptian wing, her arms folded tightly over her chest. Her fingers gripped her elbows like they were the only solid things left in the world. A clipboard hung limp at her side, forgotten.

Harrow.

The name hissed through her thoughts like a spark about to catch. She hadn’t been able to shake his voice. The calm cruelty of it. The way he’d looked at Steven—not with anger, but certainty . Like he’d already seen how the story ends.

There is chaos in you.

He’d said it like a benediction. Like a promise.

Her chest was tight, her stomach sour with nerves. She should have taken Steven and run . Should have gotten Marc to wake. Her throat clenched. Marc.

He’d be furious. For letting Harrow touch Steven. For not intervening fast enough. For exposing them both. She could already feel him pacing at the edge of her consciousness, sharp and angry, his heartbeat tangled with her own.

And now—Now she had to explain everything. Steven would want to know why a strange man had tried to judge his soul with a cane. Why Mitzi had known his name. Why her voice had shaken when she told Harrow to stop.

She turned slowly, ready to leave, ready to at least look for Steven, just to be sure—

“Steven Grant of the gift shop.”

The voice dropped from the overhead speakers like a guillotine. She stopped dead. It was calm. Smooth. Soft-spoken. But unmistakably him .

“Give me the scarab,” Harrow continued, his voice echoing into the vast museum halls, “and you won’t be torn apart.”

Every muscle in her body went cold. She looked up—stared at the black speaker overhead like it had spoken directly to her . As if Harrow could see her.

“No,” she whispered, already moving. “No no no—”

Then it came. A sound from deep inside the exhibit halls. Not human.

A shriek. Animalistic. Wet and ancient and wrong —like bones dragged across stone, like something older than fear had just been set loose.

A jackal.

Her boots skidded on the polished marble, her breath catching in her throat as she sprinted through the deserted gallery. The lights flickered overhead, motion sensors blinking on and off in a disorienting rhythm.

Steven.

He hadn’t gone home.

He was still here.

And Harrow had unleashed something for him.

Then—CRASH!

It wasn’t just a clatter of something falling. It was loud. Heavy. A sound that reverberated down the corridor from the other side of the museum like a thrown body or a toppled statue. Mitzi froze, spine stiffening. Her grip on the clipboard tightened until the cheap plastic bent under her thumb.

Footsteps. Fast. Uneven. Running.

She took a step toward the noise, then another, her legs moving before her mind gave full permission. The corridor ahead was dim. The overheads were motion-sensor timed, and only a few flickered on as she passed beneath them. Her shadow stretched impossibly long ahead of her, warping across the walls like a smear of ink. She didn’t like the way it moved.

Then—out of nowhere—he appeared.

Steven careened down the corridor, wild-eyed, his satchel thumping against his side, trainers skidding as he sprinted. He didn’t even see her at first—his whole face was twisted in sheer terror, his breath coming in short, hoarse gasps.

Behind him, two shapes bounded after him on impossible limbs. Long, skeletal, all jutting joints and snapping jaws. Jackals, but wrong—grotesque silhouettes of the sacred animal, warped into something monstrous. Their claws scraped marble. One knocked over a velvet-rope stanchion with a clatter that echoed like a gunshot.

“Steven!” she shouted, reaching for him just as he barreled past.

He jolted at her voice, twisted in surprise—and she caught his wrist, yanking hard.

“Mitzi?!” he gasped, stumbling to a stop.

“Run!” she screamed, already dragging him with her. Their hands locked, the impact of it sending a bolt of something hot through her chest, but she didn’t look back.

They sprinted together, breath and footfalls ragged, the jackals shrieking behind them. The hallway stretched on forever, museum cases blurring past. Her lungs burned, legs trembling—but she didn’t let go. Not for a second.

“There!” Steven panted, pointing with his free hand. “Washroom!”

He veered right, wrenching her toward a narrow corridor. She almost lost her footing but caught it just in time, and together they crashed through the heavy door.

Steven slammed it shut behind them, rattling the hinges. He threw the bolt with a metallic clang , then braced himself against the frame, breath heaving.

Mitzi staggered back, palms on her knees, shaking all over. The tiled walls gleamed around them under flickering fluorescent light, and the silence in their ears was suddenly deafening.

Both of them were breathing hard, ragged, the kind of breath that came from sprinting and from fear. The room was too quiet. Too sterile. It smelled like bleach and metal and the ghost of old soap.

Mitzi turned to him.

He was pale. Trembling. Still holding her hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

She gently pulled free and cupped his face instead, guiding his eyes to hers.

“Hey. Hey, breathe. Just breathe for a second. You’re okay. We’re okay.”

His chest rose and fell in frantic bursts. He was nodding, but it was the kind of nod people did when they weren’t actually hearing what you said.

“Steven,” she said again, softer this time. “Look at me.”

He did. Barely.

“You… you saw it too, yeah?” he whispered, almost afraid of the answer.

Her lips parted. She hesitated—just a beat too long. And then she nodded.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I saw it too.”

He looked at her, chest heaving, face pale. “You—you knew that man. You said his name. Harrow. What the hell’s going on, Mitzi?”

Steven’s breathing was ragged, his back pressed tight against the cool tile wall of the staff washroom. The surface bit into his spine, but he barely noticed. For a moment, it was quiet—eerily so. Just the harsh hum of the flickering fluorescent lights overhead and the wet slap of adrenaline-fueled footsteps behind them filled the space, echoing off the walls like a warning.

Then he looked up. His gaze snapped to the mirror with a sudden, almost violent urgency.

"Wait," he whispered, voice cracking. "What… no. No, what—control of what? What are you talking about?"

Mitzi turned sharply at the tone. “Steven?”

He didn’t hear her. Didn’t register her voice or presence at all. His attention was locked—frozen—on his own reflection, but the way he was staring made her stomach twist with unease. There was something wrong.

“You can’t just—no!” Steven said suddenly, his hand rising to point at the glass like it had spoken aloud. “No, I’m not doing that. I’m not just handing things over! This is mental. This is completely mental—!”

THUD!

Both of them jumped.

The door behind them buckled inward with a sharp, splintering sound that made Mitzi flinch. A heavy slam followed, echoing through the room like a threat, and then came the claws—scraping, dragging—against the other side.

“Steven—” Mitzi started, her voice tight.

Another slam. Louder this time. Closer.

Steven backed away from the mirror, hands clutching the sides of his head like he could hold himself together if he just pressed hard enough.

“Stop it!” he shouted, voice cracking under the pressure. “Damn it! No! This is not real!”

He slapped himself—hard—across the face.

Mitzi lunged forward and caught his wrist before he could do it again. “Steven, stop!”

“You’re not real!” he yelled at the mirror, eyes wild with panic. “No, you’re not! You’re just—you’re just a dream, this is all a dream—oh god—”

He was sliding down the wall now, legs giving out beneath him, breath hitching in his chest. His words spilled out in a rush, barely audible, repeating like a broken record. “We’re gonna die. We’re gonna die. We’re gonna die—”

“Hey. Hey, look at me.”

Mitzi dropped to her knees in front of him, grounding herself, and took his face in her hands. His skin was clammy. His eyes were darting everywhere—everywhere but at her.

“Steven,” she said firmly, steadying her voice, “look at me.”

He did.

“We are not going to die,” she said, slow and deliberate. “Whatever he’s saying to you, you have to listen. I know it’s scary. But you are not crazy.”

SLAM!

The door was cracking now, the wood splintering down the middle like a bone.

“I can protect you,” Mitzi said, her voice steady even as the sound of claws scraped deeper. “But I can’t fight those things on my own. You have to trust him.”

Steven stared at her. His eyes were wide, glassy with fear—but there was something else there too. Something was pulling behind them. He nodded. Just once. 

A beat passed. And then, he straightened. His pupils shifted. Subtle, but unmistakable.

Mitzi felt it like a jolt through the air—Marc stepping forward behind Steven’s eyes. A presence. A weight. A certainty. A pulse went through the room, rippling through the walls.

The suits came to life in tandem.

Marc’s sharp white vigilante armor wrapped over Steven’s frame like a second skin, crescent symbols gleaming across his chest and fists. Beside him, Mitzi’s form shifted as well—her blouse and trousers swallowed in golden light that laced into flowing black and gold robes. Her Nephthys avatar suit anchored to her like shadowed silk and armor, regal and otherworldly.

CRASH!

The jackals broke through the door in a violent burst of sound—wood splintering, metal shrieking. Growls echoed as claws dug into tile and the beasts lunged forward.

“Let’s go,” Marc growled.

They launched forward as one.

Mitzi struck the first jackal with a downward arc of shadow—deep, inky, and rimmed in faint gold like the edge of a burial shroud. The blow tore through its shoulder in a blur of darkness, and the beast recoiled with a strangled howl, smoke spilling from the wound instead of blood. It twisted violently, lashing out and flinging her backward into a row of sinks. 

Porcelain shattered beneath her like brittle bones, the sound sharp and final. Water burst from the piping in harsh, erratic jets, pooling around her like a broken offering.

Marc was already on the second jackal, slamming his fist into its jaw with brutal force. The creature flew backward into the far mirror, which shattered with a scream of silvered glass. Shards rained down like scattered stars, catching the flicker of distant moonlight.

Mitzi rose slowly, soaked and shivering, her eyes glowing faint gold. The third jackal lunged—and she met it, sliding low beneath its claws. Her hand slammed into its chest, and from her palm bloomed a bloom of darkness—fluid, curling like smoke, laced with threads of script no mortal tongue remembered. The jackal shrieked as if its soul were being unspooled. It convulsed, choked, and then unraveled into dust, pulled apart by the very shadow that gave it form.

Marc pinned the final jackal to the wall and summoned a crescent blade, the silver of it cold and clean. He drove it home, and the beast collapsed with a sigh, crumbling into ash.

Silence fell.

Water spilled across the tile from the shattered sinks, running in rivulets that caught the flickering overhead lights. Reflections danced across the broken floor—fragments of them both scattered in every direction.

Mitzi stood slowly, breathing hard, heart pounding, surrounded by the wreckage. Glass. Porcelain. Blood. Dust. And ancient death.

Marc turned toward her, chest heaving. “You okay?” he asked, voice low but steady.

Mitzi nodded, catching her breath. “Yeah.” She looked down at the chaos they’d left behind.

Chapter Text

BY THE TIME SHE HAD REACHED THE storage facility, the sun was high, bleaching the pavement and turning the air to glass. Heat shimmered off the asphalt in wavering ripples, but she felt cold beneath her skin. Her limbs dragged with exhaustion—not the kind sleep could touch, but the kind that nested deep, in marrow and memory, the kind that turned every breath into a slow, uphill climb.

The lobby looked exactly the same. Same cramped desk shoved against the wall. Same peeling laminate countertop, like it had survived a flood or two. Same disinterested attendant with one earbud dangling, the other still lodged in place. A mostly drunk iced coffee sat sweating beside the keyboard. His hoodie—zipped all the way up despite the heat—looked more like armor than clothing.

He barely glanced up, just raised a lazy hand in greeting as the glass door clicked shut behind her.

“Oh—hey,” he mumbled, voice leaking around the music still playing in one ear. “He just got here. Your husband.”

Mitzi’s steps faltered. The word hit something in her sternum like a dropped stone.

“Marc is here?” she asked, careful, each syllable placed like a chess move. 

The attendant finally pulled the other earbud free and swiveled toward her. “Yeah. Got here just a few minutes ago.”

She frowned but padded down the hallway, arms heavy at her sides. Each footstep echoed in the narrow corridor, the overhead fluorescents humming like insects. Metal doors all alike. The smell of dust and cold concrete in the air. 

When she reached Unit #43, the sliver of light underneath the door gave her pause.

Unlocked.

She gripped the handle, pushed the door open with a creaking groan, and stepped inside.

“Marc, listen—if you’re back here hoping for something extracurricular, it’s not happening. I am exhausted, I haven’t showered, I’ve got bruises where my soul lives, and if you so much as look at that cot with intention—”

Her words died in the air. He was sitting there. But it wasn’t Marc.

Steven’s wide brown eyes were locked on her like he was seeing a ghost. His mouth hung open, chest rising fast. Frozen.

She stopped mid-step. Blinked. He looked like he'd just been struck by lightning.

Then—slowly, cautiously—she walked toward him and dropped into a kneel in front of the cot. Her hands reached out gently, resting on his knees like she was calming a spooked animal.

“Steven,” she said softly, her voice low and even. “Breathe. It’s okay. ”

He let out a choked breath. “Oh my God. This is real.”

Her brows pulled together. “Yes, habibi . It’s real.”

“You’re real. You were—” he laughed, startled and hollow, “you were there. In the van. With the guns. You shot people. You saved my life. I—I thought I dreamt it, or that I’d finally lost it, or—”

“I know. It’s a lot.”

“I—I don’t want to say you’re a criminal, ‘cause that feels rude, and you’ve obviously been through a lot—”

She shrugged lightly. “Only in Egypt.”

“—and you did kind of save me, technically, so—but you have a duffel bag full of illegal things and probably several war crimes in your back pocket—sorry, sorry, that was too much, I just—” He pressed his hands to his face. “Oh God.”

“It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“No! I’m not okay!” He surged to his feet so suddenly she flinched. “I keep waking up in places I don’t remember going. People are chasing me. Killing people around me. And now you —you’re in the middle of it. You were in my flat, and I liked you, and I trusted you, and now I don’t know who the hell you are—”

He broke off. The silence that followed cracked something inside her.

“I didn’t mean that,” he added quickly, guilt chasing his panic. “I didn’t—I just don’t know what’s real anymore. I’m not trying to blame you. You’ve been kind. You’ve been… lovely. Except for the yelling at me in the Alps bit, but I assume that was adrenaline—”

“Steven.” She stood slowly. “Stop apologizing. You’re just scared.”

“I am scared!” He turned away, pacing in a frantic, tight loop. “I’m losing it. Proper losing it. I can’t trust anyone, not even myself, and now this Marc—is telling me to listen to you? You!?”

“Ya rab,” she whispered to herself. “Steven, please. You’re panicking.”

“I’m losing it is what I’m doing!” He yelled before he wheeled around, facing the shiny steel wall and pointing at his reflection. “No. I’m not going to listen to her, I don’t know her, mate. I liked her. But I don’t know who she is.”

Mitzi didn’t move. She didn’t speak. But her throat tightened, and something deep in her chest curled into itself.

“I didn’t mean that either,” he said, almost immediately, twisting back toward her. “I’m just—my brain’s chewing through itself. And I don’t know if you’re real or part of some elaborate dream or another piece of the mess I’ve become—”

“Steven, listen to me—”

“No!” he yanked the gym bag from the cot. “No, I—I can’t do this anymore. I’m gonna take this bag full of illegal shit, and I’m going to go straight to the authorities. They’ll lock me up. Maybe they’ll put me in a quiet room and give me enough medication that he —” he jabbed at the reflection again “—gets out of my bloody head.”

The lights overhead flickered. Mitzi almost flinched. Her stomach turned.

“Steven, don’t,” she said sharply, “Put the bag down—”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, half-wrecked. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I can’t trust anyone. ”

Then he ran.

“ Son of a bitch! ” she cursed in her mother tongue, surging to her feet and sprinting after him.

The hallway plunged into chaos.

One by one, the overhead fluorescents fizzled out— click. click. click. Each extinguished bulb shoved the corridor deeper into shadow, like some enormous, invisible creature was swallowing the light. Somewhere behind her, the storage unit door groaned on its hinges.

Mitzi spun out into the corridor, sprinting full tilt after Steven.

“Steven!” she shouted. “Steven, stop! Just let me explain!”

But he was already bolting down the narrow passage, his trainer soles squeaking faintly against the concrete, gym bag bouncing off his shoulder. Panic had him by the throat. He didn’t look back.

A shape peeled itself from the shadows. Long and skeletal. Dusted bone. The crescent staff in one gnarled hand glinted faintly beneath the emergency exit light. The beaked skull tilted as it regarded Steven with pale, patient malice.

“Give it back, you fool,” Khonshu intoned.

Steven shrieked. His momentum stuttered to a halt for just half a second, heels skidding on the floor. Then he pivoted, full-body turning mid-flight, and ran the other direction.

Mitzi flinched as Steven flew past her, her hair whipping around her shoulder. “ Khonshu! ” she snapped, furious. “Are you trying to give him a heart attack?”

The god stepped forward through the gloom, his looming silhouette nearly brushing the flickering ceiling. “He has the scarab.”

“You’re scaring him!” she shouted, spinning to keep pace as she backed down the corridor.

“He must learn what’s at stake, ” Khonshu growled. “Figure it out, little bird. Or I will. ”

Her fingers twitched at her sides, jaw clenched, before a second voice shimmered through her like a bell in her ribcage.

“You will not touch her, vulture.”

Mitzi’s spine straightened. Her gaze snapped up as the air around her shimmered faintly gold. The temperature changed. Softer. Still.

“She is mine,” said Nephthys . “And you have no dominion over her.”

Khonshu hissed like wind between bones, but didn’t move again.

Mitzi turned on her heel and ran.

“Steven!” she shouted as she tore through the exit, slamming the heavy fire door open. “Stop! For the love of God, will you just listen to me! ”

But he didn’t.

The bag bounced hard off his back, the strap slipping, and still he ran. He was already halfway down the alley. His breath hitched as he shoved past a dumpster, sneakers skidding in a puddle. 

" Jesus— " Mitzi swore through gritted teeth, and took off after him.

The alley reeked of old piss and oil. Her boots hit water. Somewhere overhead, a train rattled past on the tracks. Her chest burned with each breath. But she didn’t slow.

“Steven! Please! I never wanted to lie to you—”

He rounded a corner so fast he nearly slammed into a brick wall.

She groaned aloud, pushing herself harder, teeth clenched against the stitch slicing through her side.

Then she heard the squeal of tires.

“ Shit— ”

She rounded the corner just in time to see him trip—hard—and fall into the street.

His limbs went sprawling, the gym bag flying.

A moped skidded, narrowly avoiding his legs by inches.

“ Steven!! ”

But he didn’t get up.

He just lay there , in the middle of the road, hands over his head, like he was bracing for something huge and cruel to fall out of the sky.

The moped had stopped.

The rider dismounted slowly, carefully. Dark curls caught the breeze. Helmet sat comfortably. The figure turned.

Mitzi’s heart stopped .

Her breath caught sharp in her throat.

She recognized her instantly.

“No,” she whispered, the word coming out brittle. Then again—faster now, louder—“ No. No, no, no— ”

She speed-walked toward them with an urgency that made her whole body vibrate, every cell screaming. Her jaw locked. Her hands clenched. Her steps fell faster and faster with each repeat of the word.

“Marc?” the woman on the moped said, voice sharp, hovering a few steps away from the body crumpled in the middle of the road. “Where the hell have you been? Where the hell is Mariam? I swear, if you got her kil—”

Mitzi didn’t let her finish. She burst from the mouth of the alley like a shot, breath ragged, boots slamming water, heart trying to claw its way up her throat. He was still in the road. He hadn’t run this time.

“Steven,” she gasped, dropping to her knees beside him. Her palms hit the pavement hard, scraping against the grit as she braced herself over his body. “Hey—hey. You with me?”

Steven let out a low groan. One arm shifted feebly, trying to push himself up. His hair was matted to his forehead. His breath came in short, stunned bursts.

“Just—give me a second,” she said, already scanning him for blood, bone, anything wrong. “You’re okay. You didn’t get hit.”

Mitzi rose slowly, joints aching as the adrenaline began to cool. The rain from earlier still slicked the pavement, and her palms stung where gravel had bitten into them. She exhaled hard through her nose, dragging one hand down her face before planting both on her hips and turning to the woman now stalking toward her with crossed arms and murder in her eyes.

“Layla,” she said with a sigh that was more bone-deep exhaustion than irritation. “What are you—?”

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” Layla jabbed a finger toward her. “You do not get to play the confused card. Mariam, where the hell have you been ? I thought you were kidnapped. Or dead. Or worse.”

Steven, still dazed on the ground, blinked up at both of them like he was trying to make sense of a particularly chaotic dream. “I’m sorry, what’s happening?” he croaked, voice small and stunned.

Mitzi gave him a quick once-over—he was conscious, talking, not bleeding. That was good enough for now. She waved a hand vaguely between the three of them.

“Look,” she said, voice low but urgent. “I’ll explain everything. I swear. But right now we’re very much in the open and I don’t think any of us want to deal with police reports or Khonshu’s temper tantrum. Can we please just get off the street?”

Layla glanced around, muttering something in Arabic under her breath that definitely wasn’t complimentary, but finally jerked her head toward the moped. “Fine. But you’re both explaining.”

Mitzi didn’t dignify that with a response. She just turned, hauled Steven gently to his feet, and slung his arm over her shoulder like she’d done it a hundred times before. He didn’t protest. His legs were shaky, but he moved.

Layla straddled the seat first and settled herself firmly on the moped, curls whipping behind her in the evening breeze. Mitzi slipped up next, wedging herself in the middle, then carefully guided Steven in last, the three of them packed together awkwardly. Steven sat stiffly at the back, clutching the gym bag like it might explode, eyes glued anywhere but on Mitzi or Layla.

The moped hummed softly as it wove through slick London streets, puddles splashing under the tires, city lights blurring past in streaks of amber and red. Mitzi clung tightly to Layla’s waist, fingers curled around the fabric of her jacket, while Steven’s tentative hands hovered, finally resting awkwardly on Mitzi’s shoulders—an uncertain anchor.

“How did you even find us?” Mitzi called over the wind.

Without looking back, Layla’s voice was calm but sharp. “Marc’s phone. I tracked it. Figured that’s why he called me.”

Mitzi let out a slow sigh, the kind that carried more weight than she’d ever admit aloud, and glanced back at Steven. That blasted phone. She didn’t have to speak; the brief, pointed flicker of her eyes said enough, her irritation tempered by something quieter beneath it. The message landed all the same—Steven’s shoulders hunched almost imperceptibly, his gaze darting away as if the safest place to be was smaller, quieter, harder to notice.

Layla’s voice softened, threaded with that familiar mix of worry and frustration. “You could’ve given me anything—just a sign you were okay.” She shook her head, eyes narrowing briefly before darting away. “I thought you were in danger. Kidnapped. Again.”

Her fingers flexed restlessly at her sides, like she couldn’t quite keep still. “I kept trying to calm myself—telling myself, They’ve got the suits, they’ll be fine. ” She gave a short, humorless huff. “But then I started thinking… what if you got caught without it? What if Marc’s lost his?”

Mitzi’s muscles tightened. “Layla—”

“Seriously, what else was I supposed to think?”

“Do you think I planned any of this?”

“Well, you could’ve at least texted !”

Their voices rose, tension threading every word before they slipped smoothly into Arabic—fast, sharp, and charged with a flood of emotions that words alone couldn’t capture. The rhythm of their speech was almost musical, a rapid-fire exchange that carried the weight of years—love and frustration tangled tightly together like an unbreakable bond. It wasn’t just an argument; it was a sisterly dance, fierce and familiar, every sharp gesture and quick glance telling stories of shared history, unspoken understanding, and a stubborn loyalty that neither would ever relinquish.

Caught in the middle, Steven’s eyes darted nervously between them, as if watching a silent tennis match played with knives instead of balls. Each sharp exchange cut the air, invisible but palpable, and his throat tightened, choking on the weight of words left unsaid. His hands twitched at his sides, helpless to intervene, as the fierce energy swirled around him like a storm he couldn’t escape.

Mitzi suddenly twisted halfway around. “Steven, can you please stop holding onto my shoulder like that?” she snapped, caught in the moment.

He yelped and jerked his hands away, nearly tipping off the back. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to—I just—”

Mitzi rolled her eyes, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “It’s like sitting between an executioner and a Victorian duchess.”

Without a word to Steven, Mitzi reached back and took his hands, guiding them gently around her waist as if it were the most natural gesture in the world. Her touch was soft but sure. Then, without missing a beat, she turned her attention back to Layla, her voice steady and calm.

Steven froze, caught completely off guard. His fingers rested stiffly at her sides, uncertain how to settle into this sudden closeness, as if his hands were strangers in a foreign space. His heart hammered loudly in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears, rattling somewhere deep in his throat like a caged bird desperate to be heard. He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself, but his thoughts scattered.

His mind battled to stay present, but the warmth of her body pressed gently against him pulled his attention away. The subtle, comforting scent of her hair wove around him—a mix of something soft, like vanilla and sunlight—and the steady rhythm of her breathing against his back was a quiet anchor in the chaos. Every small movement, every breath, made his pulse race and his breath catch.

Layla’s voice broke through the rush of wind again, raw and sharp as a blade. “Do you see the spiral you put me through? The worry, the sleepless nights? It’s not okay, Mariam. Not even close .” Her tone softened slightly, the edge giving way to something heavier, more vulnerable. “I’m still your sister,” she said, breath hitching. “I’m still family.”

Mitzi’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of her like water leaking from a cracked jar. Her grip on Layla’s jacket slackened, and she whispered, “I know, I’m sorry.”

Behind them, Steven’s brow furrowed, confusion knitting his features as he tried to catch the weight of the words. “Sorry, sorry—did you say… sister? Family?” His voice was hesitant, as if stepping into a conversation that wasn’t quite meant for him.

Layla twisted halfway around, eyes flashing with a fierce, protective glare. “Look, no one else can hear us. Drop the act.” The word act hung in the air, sharp and accusing.

“It’s not an act,” Steven said quickly, voice stumbling over the words, earnest and desperate to be understood. “I—I’m not pretending.”

“Oh my God, stop with the accent!” Layla snapped, rolling her eyes as if the tension had sparked a sudden exasperation.

“That’s how he talks,” Mitzi muttered, sounding equal parts exasperated and protective, her voice low and steady.

Layla scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. “Okay then,” she said, voice dripping with playful menace, “He can get off the bike.”

Steven’s eyes went wide, panic flickering across his face like a candle caught in a draft. “No, no, no, wait!!” His voice rose, nerves jangling.

Mitzi leaned forward, her breath coming steady but tight, voice tense but firm. “Okay, Lay, not the time to be dramatic. I’ll explain everything, I promise. But we need somewhere private, somewhere safe, alright?”

Steven nodded emphatically, practically shouting now, desperation breaking through his nervousness. “Just—just get us to my flat. Get me home. Please.”

Layla didn’t answer with words. She twisted the throttle harder, the engine revving louder beneath them. The moped lurched forward, slicing through the damp London night.

For a moment, the only sound was the rush of air around them and the steady thump of the engine. Mitzi’s hands tightened on Layla’s waist, but her mind drifted, tangled in the weight of what Layla had said. Family. The word felt fragile, like a thread they were all gripping onto in a storm.

Steven, pressed close behind Mitzi, kept his hands lightly on her waist, still awkward, still uncertain. His heart hammered, not just from the speed but from the strange, overwhelming newness of this connection—to these two women bound by history and secrets he barely understood.

Layla’s curls whipped wildly behind her as she steered through the slick streets, a quiet determination in her posture. The three of them, cramped and awkward, but somehow held together by something stronger than explanation: blood, loyalty, and the messy, jagged chaos of family.

Chapter Text

BY THE TIME THEY REACHED HIS flat, the sky outside had begun its quiet descent into blue-grey dusk, that soft in-between hour when the world blurred and the air felt cooler, quieter. Steven reached the door first, fumbling slightly with his keys before the lock gave with a gentle click. He pushed it open with a cautious hand and stepped aside, body language curled into that familiar, slightly awkward shape of deference.

“Go on,” he murmured, motioning inward with a flick of his hand, a hesitant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “After you.”

Mitzi stepped in first. Her eyes swept the space out of habit—over the cramped walls and cluttered corners, the unmade sofa-bed, the threadbare rug. Familiar, comforting in its own way. Lived-in. Sad. She moved slowly, careful not to knock anything over. Behind her, Layla followed with more hesitation. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, her jaw set in a line that had no give.

Steven shut the door gently behind them. It closed with a soft sound— snick —barely audible, but final somehow. He hovered there, just inside, as if unsure whether to step further in or stay anchored by the door. Caught between offering tea or bracing for impact.

Layla’s gaze drifted across the room. Her eyes moved from the overstuffed bookshelf to the faint, clinging scent of chamomile tea bags, to the cold, forgotten microwave dinner tray sitting like a sad monument on the little table. She stopped at the fish tank, leaned in slightly, and tapped it once—just lightly—with one finger against the glass.

“Uh,” she said finally, brows drawing together, voice cool and clipped. “This is your flat, Marc?”

Steven blinked, confused for a second, then straightened a little. “It’s, uh—Steven,” he corrected. His hand rubbed at the back of his neck. “Actually.”

Layla turned to him sharply, then looked back at Mitzi with something like slow dawning dread. Her gaze swept the flat again—this time more deliberately. There were no pictures on the walls. No coats or shoes by the door. No small domestic traces that suggested a woman lived here.

Her voice came low. Accusatory. “Are you two not living together anymore?”

Mitzi parted her lips, her breath catching like it might form an answer. But—

“No,” Steven interjected, too fast. His voice cracked slightly with the rush of it. “We just met a few months ago. This is—this is my mum’s flat.”

Mitzi froze. Visibly. Layla’s head tilted slightly, her face tightening in disbelief.

She turned toward him fully, blinking. “Wait. What?”

And then the words came. Fast. Sharp.

“Okay. So Marc can talk to his mom again after like a million years, but you couldn’t send me one text message? An email? A letter? Not even a postcard, Mariam ?!”

Mitzi let out a long breath through her nose. Her eyes didn’t quite meet Layla’s. Her voice dropped into a lower register—flat, drained.

“I couldn’t, Layla.”

Layla laughed, if it could be called that. It was a hollow, brittle sound with no warmth in it. “Oh, right. Let me guess. Marc said ‘jump,’ and you packed up and left like a good wife. No questions asked.”

Steven turned fully toward Mitzi now, his brow furrowed, expression shifting from confusion to a slow, uneasy concern. “Wait, what?” he asked.

Neither of them looked at him.

“I was protecting you,” Mitzi said, louder now, her words edged with something sharper. “We both were.”

“Protecting me?” Layla repeated. Her tone went up, disbelief turning bitter. She stepped forward, eyes locked on Mariam. “From what, Mariam? From the truth? From the fact that you both decided I didn’t matter anymore?”

Steven looked between them, utterly lost, his frown deepening. “Why are you calling her Mariam?” he asked, a little softer now—but the storm had already arrived. His voice was drowned beneath it.

“You think I wanted this?” Mitzi snapped, taking a half-step forward. “You think I chose to leave you behind?”

“You wouldn’t have left if you didn’t want to,” Layla shot back, eyes blazing. “You always did what Marc told you. Always.”

“I cried for you every night.”

“Then why didn’t you come back?”

“Because it wasn’t safe!”

Their voices rose in tandem, louder and faster now, the heat between them crackling like dry kindling finally catching flame. They squared up to each other, bodies tense, breaths quickening, every trace of pretense stripped away. The air pulsed with raw emotion, electric and unguarded.

Then the language shifted.

Arabic—sudden, sharp, fierce.

Words erupted between them in overlapping waves, clipped and charged, each syllable dripping with the weight of shared history. It was the kind of fight born not just of momentary anger but of blood and memory—years of silence pouring out all at once. Accusation, guilt, betrayal tangled in the cadence, pain woven deep into the syntax. This was sister to sister, a battle fought on the battlefield of their past, where every phrase carried wounds no one else could see.

Steven stood frozen. His eyes jumped between them like he was watching a slow-motion car crash unfold. One hand hovered uselessly in the air, unsure whether to reach out or recoil.

“Okay…” he muttered under his breath, shoulders inching upward. “Right. That’s… a lot.”

But neither woman heard him. Their voices swelled and crashed between them, drowning out everything else, including his presence. It was as if he’d become a ghost—an invisible observer trapped outside the fierce circle of their shared history and raw emotion.

“Ladies—?” he tried again, louder this time. No use.

The room seemed to swell with their voices—sharp consonants and broken syllables tumbling over each other, too fast and fierce for him to follow. The air thickened, charged with a rhythm and intensity that felt foreign and electric, as if their words were weaving a language of their own, one made of raw emotion rather than meaning.

Then, suddenly, he shouted. 

“ Please! ”

The word cracked through the room like a slap.

Everything stopped.

Both women froze mid-sentence. Silence rushed in like a vacuum. The air felt heavy. Still. Even the gentle filter hum of the fish tank felt loud now.

Steven stood between them, chest rising and falling a little too fast. His voice, when it came again, was low. Pleading. “Someone… anyone… please tell me what is going on.”

Layla turned away, her jaw tight, eyes wet.

Mitzi stood still. Shoulders slumped. Her arms had dropped to her sides. And in the tilt of her spine, in the small sag of her posture, there was something worn down to the bone—exhaustion, guilt, regret braided into one.

“Why does she keep calling you Mariam?” Steven asked, nodding vaguely toward Layla without taking his eyes off Mitzi. “She’s called you that several times now—Mariam. Who the bloody hell is Mariam?”

Mitzi’s back was still to him. Her shoulders didn’t move at first, didn’t give anything away. But when she turned slowly, her face wasn’t hiding anymore. Her jaw was clenched, eyes red-rimmed but dry—for now.

“I am,” she said simply. Quietly. Like the name itself was heavier than anything else in the room. “I’m Mariam.”

The words fell like a final stone into place. Steven’s mouth opened a little, then closed again. He looked like he might say something—but what would he even ask? What would he call her?

Steven’s brow creased, his throat working. “So—Mitzi’s not even your real name?”

She shook her head once. “It’s a nickname. From when I was younger. I just… used it. It felt easier.” 

He blinked at her. “Easier than what?” 

She hesitated. Then, with the same weary steadiness: “Mariam El-Faouly.” The name landed between them like a dropped weight. “Well. Technically…” She lifted her eyes to meet his. “Mariam El-Faouly Spector.” 

There was silence. Steven didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He looked at her like he couldn’t quite see her anymore—like her outline had blurred and shifted into something unrecognizable. 

He shook his head slowly. “So you’re… you were married to him?”

“I am married to him,” she said. The correction was gentle, but firm. 

Another silence. 

Steven took a step back, like distance might give him clarity. “And you’ve just been lying to me this whole time?” he said, voice fraying. “About your name, about this Marc—what else?” 

Mitzi’s mouth opened, then closed. She looked down, fingers curling into her palms. “Steven…” 

He let out a breath, shaky, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “Bloody hell. You were never just some tour guide. Were you?” Her jaw clenched. 

She looked up at him then, eyes wet but clear. “I didn’t come here to trick you,” she said. “I didn’t want any of this. Marc asked me to keep an eye on you.” 

Steven’s expression twisted. “So what—he just sent his wife to babysit me?”

“I’m not babysitting you,” she said—too fast, too sharp, the edge of her temper slicing through before she could rein it in. “Do you think I wanted to do this? Do you think I wanted to show up at some museum, pretend to be someone I’m not, tiptoe around you while you stumbled through blackouts and gods and nightmares?”

Her voice caught. Something sharp and unfinished in the back of her throat. She sucked in a breath through her nose, blinked hard, and turned away from him—too quickly. Like she knew if she didn’t, it would all spill out.

Her shoulders lifted with the force of the breath she tried to swallow. One trembling hand came up, fingers pressing to the bridge of her nose, dragging down across her face like she could erase the expression there—pull herself back together by sheer will.

She tipped her chin up, blinking at the ceiling. Her lips pressed into a line that trembled slightly at one corner. Her whole body was working overtime to stay upright. Composed. Contained.

But she wouldn’t let the tears fall. Not here. Not in front of them.

Behind her, Layla stood still. Arms folded tight, expression unreadable now—guarded, maybe. Not cold. Just… bracing.

Steven didn’t move.

His hands were still clenched, but it wasn’t anger anymore—it was regret. Guilt blooming, hot and restless, under his ribs. He’d been so caught up in the feeling of betrayal, of unraveling truth, that he hadn’t really seen what it was doing to her. To Mitzi —no, to Mariam .

He looked at her back, at the small, involuntary tremble in her arms, the way her head stayed tilted just so, like gravity itself might break her if she looked down.

It hurt to look at her like that.

He hadn’t meant to be cruel. He’d just… wanted the truth.

And now that he had it, it didn’t feel righteous. It just felt heavy.

Steven took a breath. Let it out slowly. “Mitzi…” he said softly, gently, the name falling out before he could stop it.

She shook her head, not turning around. “Just…” Her voice was thick, the word barely formed. “Give me a second.”

That stopped him. Made him go still. She wasn’t shutting him out—she was holding herself together with both hands, and he’d just made it harder.

His anger—what little remained of it—quieted. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

Her fingers curled at her sides now, nails digging into the fabric of her trousers. She lowered her head, drew in another breath—shallow, shaking—like she was trying to swallow it all down. Like if she could just hold it in, just breathe through it, then maybe none of it would escape. Maybe she could still keep something intact.

“This was never supposed to happen,” she said, quieter now. “You weren’t supposed to get dragged into this,” she whispered. “And then I met you. And you were kind. And weird. And smart. And I started to care. And I couldn’t tell you who I was, and every day it got harder to lie and harder to leave.”

Steven took a single step forward. He didn’t speak. Didn’t reach for her. Just stood there—closer. Listening. Something in his face shifted. The edges of his confusion and hurt dulling into something else. Something quieter. Sadder.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” she said again. 

Her voice caught on the last word as she turned just enough for him to see her profile—lashes clumped at the corners with saltwater, her jaw trembling with the effort of holding it all back. Single tears slipped down her cheeks.

She swiped them away, fast, as if pretending it wasn’t there would make it true. “I swear, Steven,” she spoke softly. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

He stood there, still. Watching her like she was something delicate and drowning all at once. His jaw clenched like he was biting back words, but none came. Not yet.

Mariam wiped her face with the heel of her hand—once, sharply—then turned the rest of the way around. Arms folding in front of her like armor. Or like scaffolding. Something to lean on.

“He didn’t trust anyone else,” she said, voice steadier now, though it cost her. “Not with this. Not with you. And I said yes because—because I always say yes to Marc. Even when I shouldn’t.”

Steven’s face changed at that. A flicker behind his eyes. Recognition. Pain. Something deeper than jealousy—something older. Like he’d heard that echo before and known exactly where it led.

“But I didn’t want to lie to you ” Her voice broke again. “You didn’t deserve that.”

He finally spoke, quiet. “Neither did you.”

That stopped her. She looked up at him—truly looked—and for one breathless second, there was only silence between them. Not peace. Not forgiveness. Just silence.

A slow clap cut through the silence—once, then again. Measured. Mocking. Mariam and Steven turned toward the sound.

Layla stood in the doorway now, arms crossed tight, one bag slung over her shoulder. Her face was calm, too calm. But her mouth curved into something that might’ve once been a smile—before it curdled into something colder.

“Well done,” she said flatly. “Truly.”

Mariam blinked, her exhaustion giving way to a flicker of suspicion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Layla stepped further into the flat and let the bag drop with a dull thud. “It means I’m done pretending this makes sense.” She let out a brittle, breathy laugh. “What was the plan, Mariam? Let me handle the fallout while you played shadow games? Leave me with the legacy, the grief—and just disappear?”

She unzipped her bag and pulled out a thick manila envelope, slapping it down hard on the table. The impact cracked the tension open like a gunshot. Legal documents spilled out—creased, travel-worn, stamped in too many countries.

Steven didn’t want to look. But his eyes caught the name written on the bottom. Sure enough, Mariam El-Faouly Spector.

No one moved for a breath. The only sound was breathing—too fast, too loud.

Then Layla’s voice cut in, quiet and sharp as a knife. “What are you doing?” Her eyes flicked to Steven, voice low and steady in that dangerous way. “Dragging her around for fun?”

Steven flinched. “No. God, no. It’s not like that—” His voice cracked as he looked at Mariam, then back to Layla. “I didn’t even know she was—” He stopped, eyes darting briefly toward the mirror, jaw tightening. “Look, this Marc… He seems like a right twit” he muttered, almost to himself.

He bent down, fumbling with the clasp of the gym bag on the table, hands trembling with too much urgency. “Look—I found something. In the locker. With the guns and all the madness. I thought maybe—maybe it would help explain—”

Mariam’s whole body went tense. She stepped forward fast. “Steven, don’t—”

“Stop keeping his bloody secrets,” Steven snapped. His voice was thin and brittle now, cracking under the weight of all the things he hadn’t asked for. He yanked the zipper open.

Mariam froze. This wasn’t just Marc’s secret. This could put Layla in danger.

But it was already too late.

Steven’s hand hovered over the contents of the bag—then stopped. His breath hitched. Eyes locked on the mirror.

“What is it?” Layla asked, already stepping forward. Her gaze sharpened, catching the shift in his face.

When Steven didn’t answer, she didn’t wait. She shoved past him and yanked the bag from his grip, rifling through it like it was hers by right. Her fingers found the scarab.

She went still. The air changed. Her expression shifted from focused to stunned—then furious. “You’ve had this the whole time?”

“I wasn’t hiding it from you,” Mariam said quickly, but her voice was already breaking.

Layla turned on her, scarab in hand like it was a weapon now. “You were going to do it, weren’t you? You were going to find Ammit’s tomb. The one thing Baba lived for—and you were going to finish it without me.”

“No,” Mariam whispered. “Layla, no, that’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it ?” Layla’s voice rose, raw and cracking with betrayal. “What the hell is it, Mariam?”

“There’s more to it than just the tomb,” Mariam said, words tumbling out like she was trying to grab hold of something already falling. “The gods—Khonshu, Nephthys, Harrow—it’s not just Baba’s legacy anymore.”

“Oh, there’s always more with you,” Layla spat. “You and Marc, always holding the bigger picture just out of reach. Always leaving me with the pieces.”

“I wasn’t trying to leave you behind.” Mariam’s eyes brimmed, her voice trembling. “I wanted to tell you. I begged Marc to. We were going to—but then everything went sideways and—”

“Don’t,” Layla cut in, shaking her head. “Don’t pretend this was about protecting me. You decided to bury me. You buried my name and tried to carry Baba’s legacy like it was yours alone.”

“That’s not fair,” Mariam whispered, tears threatening again. “That’s not what happened.”

“Isn’t it?” Layla snapped, her voice now ice. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you picked him. Again. Even after everything.”

Steven stood between them, silent, aching. He hadn’t known. But now, watching Layla’s fury crash into Mariam’s grief, he wished more than anything he had.

Wished he could undo it all. But the scarab in Layla’s hand gleamed like fate—and it was already too late.

Chapter Text

LAYLA WAS STILL GLARING DAGGERS at Mitzi when the knock came—a sharp, deliberate rap-rap-rap at the door that split through the room like a crack in glass. Too loud. Too calm. The kind of knock that didn’t ask for permission. The kind that expected obedience. Every muscle in the room seized. The air itself seemed to freeze, waiting.

Mitzi tensed mid-step. Layla’s eyes flicked toward the door, jaw clenched. Even the air seemed to tighten, to go still in anticipation—like the flat itself knew something was wrong. The kind of wrong that didn’t knock twice.

Steven, pale as parchment, turned slowly toward the sound, his body moving as if drawn by a string. His eyes locked on the door like it had called out to him personally, like it had spoken his true name and all the names he was afraid of. His breath had vanished. Another knock followed—louder this time, more insistent. No hesitation now.

“Steven Grant?” A woman’s voice called from the other side, clipped and cold and utterly self-assured. “Can we have a word?”

Steven’s blood turned to ice. His eyes didn’t leave the door. “They’ve come for me.”

Mitzi’s brows knit together. “Steven, what are you talking about?” Her tone tried to stay calm, but the edges frayed fast. “Why would the police be here?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hands twitched, then curled at his sides. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you,” he said at last. His throat worked around the words. “Today, they reviewed the footage from last night, and…” He stopped. Swallowed. “I got sacked. The museum said I vandalized the toilets.”

Mitzi blinked, stunned. “Steven, you didn’t—”

“They only saw me on camera,” he said, voice quiet and distant, like he was already halfway out of the room. “Wrecking the place. No Jackal. No gods. Just me.” His laugh was breathy, a flicker of disbelief more than amusement. “Guess they figured I lost it.”

She let out an exhale—part shock, part bewildered laugh, too short to be real. “Well, then I’m out of a job too.”

But Steven didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile. His lips parted again, like something else wanted to come out—but whatever it was lodged too deep.

“It wasn’t just the damage,” he said finally. His voice dropped. “They… they said they had to open an investigation.”

Mitzi straightened. “Into what?” Her voice sharpened, slicing through the room.

Steven turned to her slowly. The guilt on his face was unmistakable—etched in deep lines and too many sleepless nights. “They said it looked like I was harassing you.”

Her expression shattered—surprise, outrage, disbelief all colliding at once. “That’s—Steven, that’s insane. You weren’t—” She stopped herself, trying to rearrange her thoughts into something coherent. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“Steven Grant,” came the voice again—louder now, absolute authority ringing through it. “This is the police. Open the door.”

Steven flinched like he’d been slapped. “Yeah!” he called, voice cracking. “Just—just a second!”

Mitzi moved instantly. No hesitation. Pure instinct. She grabbed Layla by the wrist and yanked her toward the bookcase window with more force than finesse.

Layla resisted. “What are you—?”

“ Trust me, ” Mitzi hissed, already fumbling with the latch.

The window screeched faintly as she pushed it open. The cool rush of London night spilled in fast—car horns, distant sirens, city breath. The stale air of the flat was pulled backward like a tide. They clambered through, ducking into the cold slap of night air. The roof was sloped and treacherous beneath them, the tiles slick underfoot as the wind hissed around them, biting their faces and tugging at their clothes. Shoes scraped for purchase against the pitch. One wrong move, and it was a straight fall down.

Layla followed, grumbling under her breath as the cold slammed into them. The rooftop was angled and treacherous, tiles slick and uneven beneath their shoes. Wind tore around them in sudden gusts, tugging at their jackets, needling their faces.

“Gods,” Layla muttered, clinging to the gutter like it was the last stable thing in the universe. “If I die doing this—”

“Then you can haunt me later,” Mitzi whispered, crouched beside her, one hand gripping the frame, the other steadying them both. Her heart pounded in her ears. “Just shhh.”

Below them, Steven opened the front door. The voice that greeted him was the same as before—female, smooth now, polished with practiced charm. Too friendly. “Evening. You Steven Grant?”

“Yes?” Steven’s voice trembled, cracking at the edges. “No. Yes. I mean—I am.”

“You mind if we come in?”

Another pause. Then—

“Thanks,” said a second voice—male this time, brisk and dismissive, as the officer pushed through the door without waiting for permission.

From above, Mitzi and Layla ducked lower. The rooftop gave them cover, but not quiet. From inside, the muffled sounds filtered out in fragments: footsteps thudding across the floorboards, the creak of cabinet doors opening, the faint clink of something glass. 

Low voices. A question asked, too faint to make out. Steven’s voice rising a little, trying to sound calm. Trying and failing. Then the woman again—her tone colder now. Less friendly.

“What’s this? Marc Spector? ”

A long, loaded silence followed. Mitzi held her breath.

Steven’s voice, low and desperate: “That’s… not mine.”

“It was in your flat.”

“I mean, yes, it was in my flat, but it’s—look…”

“Stolen item and a fake passport?” The woman’s tone twisted, sharp as wire. “You’d better come with us, son.”

“Wait, I—”

Click.

The sound of handcuffs snapped through the air like a guillotine blade. Final. Irrevocable. Inevitable. Mitzi squeezed her eyes shut.

Below, under the orange wash of the streetlamp, two dark figures emerged from the building, leading Steven out in cuffs. His wrists glinted silver under the light, his face caught between confusion and panic, trying not to look back at the place where he knew they might still be watching.

They shoved him into the backseat of a waiting black car. Mitzi didn’t move—not a muscle. It felt like her feet were cemented to the pavement, or maybe the weight of everything was pressing her down, squeezing the air from her lungs. Stress had wrapped itself tight around her, freezing her in place.

Layla’s grip was sudden and firm on her arm. “Get your head in the game, Mariam.”

The sharpness in Layla’s voice cut through the fog. Mitzi blinked hard, took a deep breath, and pushed the panic down—hard. Her limbs moved again, stiff but determined.

Before she could hesitate, Layla yanked her backward through the grimy window frame. Mitzi stumbled inside but found her footing fast, eyes sharp and focused.

“Come on,” Layla said, softer now but still no-nonsense.

𓂀

They rode after the car on Layla’s battered moped, the engine whining beneath them like it resented the urgency, like it might give out at any second. The night air cut against their faces as the taillights ahead dipped and twisted through the narrow London streets, painting the asphalt with streaks of red that vanished as quickly as they appeared. 

Mitzi clung to Layla from behind, arms wrapped tightly around her waist, leaning forward to counterbalance every sharp turn, every lurching stop. Her heartbeat thudded against her ribs in time with the growl of the bike, adrenaline mingling with dread in her veins. Streetlamps passed them in rapid pulses. Headlights from oncoming cars blurred past in flashes of too-white glare.

Layla didn’t say a word—not until they hit a red light and the world held still for just a moment. She half-turned over her shoulder, just enough for her voice to cut back through the roar of traffic. It came out sharp and brittle, shaped by anger but carried on something heavier. “You want to explain what the hell is going on?”

Mitzi leaned in closer, her breath warm against the back of Layla’s shoulder, her words pressed low so no one else would hear even if they could. “Steven’s not lying,” she said. “He doesn’t know who Marc is.”

Layla’s shoulders tensed, her jaw setting so tight Mitzi could feel the shift in her spine beneath her hands. “What?”

“Marc has DID,” Mitzi said quietly, the words tasting strange even though she’d rehearsed them before. “Dissociative Identity Disorder. Marc… and Steven… they’re alters. Different people. Sharing the same body.”

The light turned green before Layla could answer, and the bike lurched forward again, tires screeching just slightly as she accelerated too hard. The silence that followed wasn’t calm—it was loaded, compressed by things unsaid and things too late to say. The sound of the wind swallowed them, whipped past their ears in screaming bursts as they raced deeper into the dark.

“You should’ve told me,” Layla said at last, her voice flat, almost expressionless—except for the undercurrent of something that wasn’t just anger. It was betrayal. It was grief.

“I know,” Mitzi murmured, guilt flaring hot in her chest.

 Layla’s jaw tightened, eyes darkening. “I could have helped, Mim.”

“I know,” Mitzi nodded before she swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I wish I had told you. I thought I could handle it on my own…” she trained her eyes on the car in front of them “But sometimes, it feels like I’m drowning.”

Layla didn’t respond. She just drove faster.

Behind them, the night kept closing in—narrow and breathless—while the path ahead was lit only by the flickering red glow of a car they couldn’t afford to lose.

𓂀

The car peeled off the main road and slipped into a tight alley, squeezed between crumbling brick walls and rust-streaked metal shutters long sealed shut. The air was thick with the smell of soot and damp pavement. No sirens chased them. No flashing lights or police chatter shattered the silence. Just the soft rumble of Layla’s engine fading into stillness and smoke curling lazily from the chimneys above, like ghosts exhaling into the night.

Half a block away, the moped clattered to a halt with a final metallic wheeze. Layla and Mitzi killed the engine and swung off, ducking into the long shadow between two overflowing dumpsters. Cold bit at their hands and faces, and the grime of the alley pressed close around them.

“That’s not a police station,” Layla muttered, peering around the corner.

“No,” Mitzi said, her voice low but certain. “But that is a trap.”

Ahead of them, the black car rolled to a stop in front of a derelict warehouse with corrugated metal walls and a single security light sputtering overhead like it was struggling to stay alive. One of the “officers”—bigger now, more clearly muscled than a cop—climbed out and opened the back door with deliberate, menacing ease. He reached in and hauled Steven out by the arm like baggage.

Mitzi reached out, fingers catching Layla’s sleeve. “Let’s get closer.”

They crept forward in silence, their footsteps careful on the uneven gravel. They stayed tucked in the shadows, weaving between rusted storage tanks and decaying crates, the air heavy with oil and dust. Halfway up the side of the building, a shattered window gave them a jagged line of sight into the warehouse interior. Mitzi crouched low beneath it, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the scene.

Steven stood in the center of the cavernous room, surrounded by metal beams and stacks of forgotten machinery. His hands were still cuffed behind his back, and under the harsh buzz of fluorescent lights, he looked so much smaller, so clearly not Marc. Just Steven. Scared and confused and entirely alone.

Opposite him, Arthur Harrow moved in slow, deliberate arcs. His steps were soft but unrelenting, like a predator circling prey that had already stopped running. His silver hair caught the light as he moved, his expression unreadable, but the gleam in his eyes betrayed his amusement.

“Where is the scarab?” Harrow asked, voice sharp and precise, like a knife dragged across glass.

Steven’s lips parted. He swallowed hard. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I-I don’t have it.”

Harrow’s footsteps echoed louder now as he drew closer. “Where is the scarab, Steven?”

Outside, Mitzi ducked lower, her fingers curling tightly around the lining of her jacket, pulse pounding in her ears. The fear she felt wasn’t just her own—it was old, woven with memory and something deeper than instinct.

Beside her, Layla crouched in rigid silence, jaw tight, eyes locked on the window.

“Lay,” Mitzi whispered.

“Not now,” came the reply, terse and automatic.

“Layla,” Mitzi said again, more firmly this time. “Hand me the scarab.”

Layla’s head turned sharply. “What?”

“He needs help.”

“No kidding.”

“I said—” Mitzi turned toward her fully now, her gaze steady and unwavering, “—give me the scarab.”

Layla stared at her, disbelief and fury warring behind her eyes. “We can’t just hand it over.”

“I’m not handing it over. I’m showing him I have it.”

Layla’s jaw clenched tight, her shoulders drawing back like she was bracing for impact.

“Trust me,” Mitzi said softly, but with weight, like she wasn’t just asking for the object, but everything that came with it.

For a moment, Layla didn’t move. The wind pushed down the alley, dry and cold, sweeping dust through their hiding place, lifting the hem of Mitzi’s coat. It carried the scent of metal and something older. Something sacred. Between them, the silence deepened into something more than tension. It was a memory. It was history. It was the weight of old gods and older promises.

Then—slowly—Layla reached into her jacket. She pulled the golden scarab from its inner pocket, and even in the dark, it seemed to glow faintly, as if aware it was needed. She pressed it into Mitzi’s palm without another word.

Mitzi closed her fingers around it and gave a small nod of thanks. Then she stood.

Inside, Harrow was still asking the same question. His voice coiled around Steven like a snake tightening. But Steven wasn’t hearing it anymore. His thoughts were spinning out in every direction, colliding with the walls of his mind. His heart thundered in his chest like it wanted out. He just kept shaking his head.

And then—

“I have it.”

The words rang out clear, cutting through the warehouse like a blade through silence.

Everything stopped.

Every head turned.

From the shadows, Mitzi stepped forward, her figure descending from the catwalk with slow, deliberate grace. Her boots echoed lightly against the metal as she entered the open, her arm raised, the golden scarab gleaming in her palm. Its surface caught the light and shimmered—not just with reflected brightness, but with something deeper, older. It glowed faintly with an inner warmth, as though it recognized the hand that held it.

Harrow blinked, his gaze sharpening. “Ah,” he said, almost gently. “Mariam.”

Steven’s eyes widened. “Mitzi?”

“There is no deal in this, Marc,” Khonshu’s rasp rang out behind Steven, vast and terrible, a voice like thunder trapped in a tomb. 

The god’s skeletal form loomed with merciless grandeur, enormous and ancient, his beaked skull bowed just slightly forward in judgment, the weight of eternity pressing down through his gaze. Cloaked in feathers and moonlight, Khonshu towered behind him like a living curse made manifest, his rage crackling in the air like static before a storm.

“Fix this!” the god snarled, his command ringing out with the finality of a death knell. “Fix this!”

Steven flinched, stumbling backward as though he’d been physically struck. No one else could see what he saw, but it didn’t matter. The dread that gripped him was real enough. He blinked rapidly, chest heaving, his hands twitching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Summon the suit,” Layla called out from behind Mitzi, her voice urgent, slicing through the chaos with precision. She stepped forward, her eyes locked on Steven, every muscle in her body coiled with tension. “Now.”

“Sorry,” Steven said, blinking harder, his voice cracking under the pressure. “Summon the soup? What are you saying?”

Layla stared at him like he’d grown another head. “The suit,” she hissed, sharper now. “Summon the suit!”

But Steven only looked more confused, his breath coming faster. “I-I don’t know what that means!”

Before anyone could snap at him again, Mitzi stepped forward, calm in the storm. Her movements were steady, deliberate. Her presence seemed to part the panic like a stone cutting through water. She placed herself between him and the others without force, just quiet authority.

“He’s not Marc,” she said gently, her voice the eye in the hurricane. “Not right now.”

Layla’s breath caught. Harrow, who had been standing just out of reach, tilted his head with growing interest. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, amused by the unraveling before him, content to watch it play out like a story he already knew the ending to.

Mitzi turned toward Steven, moving to his side, her expression softening. “Here,” she said, and into his open, trembling palm, she placed the golden scarab with reverent care. “Keep it safe,” she said as its cool metal surface flashed under the flickering overhead lights, and his fingers curled instinctively around it.

Then it began.

Silk—impossibly fine, impossibly ancient—rose around her in curling ribbons of black and gold, coiling up her legs in smooth, deliberate spirals. The fabric wove itself around her frame like it had been waiting to return to her, like it remembered.

Her arms were wrapped in patterned bands, marked with hieroglyphs that shimmered with quiet power. Her chestplate formed piece by piece, shaped into the likeness of wings from a bird of prey, golden and inlaid with deep lapis that pulsed faintly with divine energy. A hood settled over her head as her hair lifted slightly in the still air, caught by an unseen wind that whispered of desert sands and lost tombs.

And then her eyes opened—no longer the eyes of Mitzi nor Mariam. They blazed molten gold, radiant and inhuman. Twin suns burning in the shadows.

And the gods remembered her name.

Chapter Text

STEVEN AND LAYLA TORE UP the stone stairs two at a time, footsteps ringing like sirens through the cavernous warehouse. Below them, chaos erupted—shouts, grunts, the crash of bodies colliding with crates and corrugated metal.

On the floor, Mitzi stood her ground—fluid, lethal, wreathed in silk and gold. Shadows coiled at her feet like living smoke, slipping across the floor in sinuous tendrils.

The first cultist lunged with a blade. She sidestepped, shadows lashing up to snare his ankle—just enough to throw him off balance before she spun and drove her elbow into his throat. Another charged from the side. She caught his wrist, twisted, disarmed him in a single breathless motion, then swept his legs—and as he fell, a shadow darted ahead, launching his weapon straight into the chest of a third man.

They kept coming. She didn’t move. The shadows moved for her.

Then Harrow raised his staff.

His voice dropped low, guttural—intoning a language that scraped across the mind like sand dragged over bone. The air thickened. Concrete groaned. Purple light bled through the cracks racing across the floor. Shadows recoiled, hissing. Something ancient stirred beneath the warehouse.

The fighting stilled. Just for a breath.

Mitzi looked up.

“Hurry!” Layla shouted from the railing. “Mim, now!”

Mitzi flipped, shadows lifting her mid-air like coiled springs. She caught the upper rail one-handed and vaulted, cape flaring like wings as she landed in a crouch in front of Steven. Her armor flashed gold beneath the flickering lights. Darkness rippled at her heels like a cloak made of ink. Her eyes blazed. Her expression: calm, sharpened to a blade’s edge.

Steven skidded to a halt, staring. “Oh,” he breathed, eyes dragging over the gleam of her armor, the inky shadows coiling at her heels, the way her cape settled around her like wings. “Wow.”

She was radiant. Terrifying. Gorgeous.

Mitzi arched an eyebrow, catching the look. “Eyes up, gift shop.”

Steven jolted, blinking hard—cheeks coloring—but before he could stammer something dumb, she seized Steven’s hand, cool and sure, and together they bolted up the remaining stairs. Her fingers were cool, steady. His brain short-circuited.

“Go, go, go!” Layla shouted, throwing open the first door.

They burst through it at full speed, boots pounding down a narrow catwalk toward a second door at the far end. Another pulse of violet energy rumbled through the warehouse—dust cascaded from the ceiling like falling ash. Behind them, metal screamed as the stair rail snapped and collapsed with a hollow clang.

No one looked back.

Mitzi reached the door first and kicked it open. They spilled into a cramped, dust-choked storage room lined with rusted shelves, shattered display cases, and half-covered furniture sealed in yellowing plastic. Steven slammed the door shut behind them—the echo cracked through the space like a gunshot.

Dust swirled in the flickering red emergency lights, catching the air like fine ash suspended mid-fall.

Mitzi and Layla didn’t pause. They hauled a thick wooden panel across the iron brackets, bolting the door shut. The wood groaned under their grip, reluctant with age, then dropped into place with a deep, jarring thunk .

Stillness. But not silence.

Steven lingered near a grime-streaked window, panting, his knuckles white around the glowing scarab. It pulsed like a heartbeat in his palm.

Mitzi stepped back, wiping her brow. Her golden armor glinted dully beneath the blood-red lights, shadows curling at her heels like smoke. It was the first breath any of them had caught since the chase began.

But then they turned—slowly, uneasily—eyes adjusting. And froze.

The room wasn’t cluttered. It was arranged. Not forgotten. Not abandoned.

Curated.

Relics lined the shelves—canopic jars, cracked idols, faded scrolls, altars twisted into grotesque shapes. Sarcophagi leaned against the walls, silent and sealed. A row of mummies stood upright in the far shadows, wrapped tight in centuries of stillness. Their blank eyes watched.

This wasn’t storage.

It was a shrine. A gallery.

A twisted museum of devotion.

Steven’s gaze darted wildly from corner to corner, panic blooming fast and sharp in his chest with every grotesque detail. “Oh my god,” he breathed, voice tight and rising. “We’re gonna die in an evil magician’s man cave.”

The door jolted with a thunderous crack , rattling the bolt. Dust rained from the ceiling in fine sheets. Something heavy—and furious—was coming.

Mitzi’s golden armor shimmered, then began to fade—first the gleaming plates, then the silk beneath—melting away like morning mist until she stood in plain clothes, raw and real beneath the flickering red light.

“No. Hey—listen to me, Steven,” she said, turning to him with quiet urgency, sharpening her voice just enough to cut through his panic. Her eyes flicked toward the splintering door behind them but quickly found his. “Remember what you did back at the museum? How you let Marc take over?”

Another heavy blow rattled the door—louder, closer.

Steven shook his head violently, staggering backward as if the words themselves were too much to bear. “No, I can’t—I don’t know how. I don’t even know if he’s real!” His breath came fast and shallow, ragged. “Please—please stop, both of you!”

His wide, terrified eyes darted between Mitzi and a gleaming brass plate on the floor, where his distorted reflection shimmered—cracked and fractured like glass ready to shatter. He clutched his head, sank to the floor, curling inward, fingers tangling in his hair as if trying to hold himself together.

“Steven,” Mitzi tried again, voice threading with desperation, steadying. “You’re okay. Just breathe. Look at me.”

He flinched, eyes darting away.

Mitzi dropped to her knees before him. She reached up and gently took his face in her hands—no pressure, just enough to steady him, to hold his gaze. Her touch was warm, grounding.

“Hey,” she whispered, soft as silk. “You can do this. It’s okay. I’m right here.”

Tears welled in Steven’s eyes, panic shaking every breath. He shook his head, voice barely audible, cracking with helplessness. “I can’t… I can’t. I’m sorry, Mitzi. I just can’t.”

Another thunderous slam hit the door—the wood cracking like a breaking bone.

Mitzi exhaled slowly, her thumb brushing lightly across his cheek. “Okay,” she murmured. “It’s alright.”

Layla stood frozen, her gaze locked on Steven as he unraveled before them—each tremor, each ragged breath breaking something fragile inside her. It was like watching a slow fracture spreading through glass, a quiet collapse of a person forced beyond their limits.

The truth hit her like a physical blow, slamming into her chest with the weight of a collapsing star. This wasn’t Marc. Not even close.

Marc was strong—confident, controlled, haunted but resolute. This man—this version—was raw and trembling, fractured by a torment he had never chosen, never wanted, and certainly never deserved. The crushing weight of a fractured identity pressed down on him, threatening to suffocate the very essence of who he was.

Layla’s breath caught as she realized the depths of his despair, how close he was to slipping entirely beneath the surface, lost in a storm of fear and confusion that no one could see but them.

And in the middle of that tempest, there was Mitzi—steady and unwavering. The only tether, the sole anchor holding him from drifting into the void. Her presence was a fragile lifeline, a quiet but fierce promise that he was not alone.

“We’ll find another way out,” Layla said quickly, already moving. 

She crossed to the back of the room in a flash, pulling at the window latch, trying to find a fire escape or even just a ledge. Anything. Anything that wasn’t that door.

But the door didn’t wait.

It exploded inward with a thunderous roar—splintering wood and shattering metal flying like shards of glass.

A massive jackal—bigger than the one from the museum, its eyes burning with fierce purple flame—stormed through the breach. It landed with bone-crushing force, talons gouging deep grooves into the weathered floorboards. Its glowing gaze locked onto Steven, teeth bared in a snarl that vibrated through the air and rattled the shelves around them.

Mitzi’s breath caught, and without hesitation, shadows swirled around her once more. The golden armor reformed in brilliant shards of light and dark, knitting swiftly over her skin like molten metal forged in shadow. Silk and gold coiled back into place, wrapping her in her ancient power. Her eyes blazed brighter—radiant, sharp, unyielding.

She stepped forward, cape billowing like wings unfurling, ready to meet the beast head-on.

“Stay behind me, Steven!” Mitzi commanded, her voice firm but urgent. Shadows flickered around her as she planted herself between him and the looming threat, ready to defend.

But Steven was too panicked to hear. His breath came in ragged gasps, eyes wild and unfocused. “Jackal. Jackal—jackal!” His voice jumped half an octave, trembling.

“Steven—!” Mitzi shouted, throwing her arm out instinctively, bracing to shield him—But the jackal didn’t aim for her.

With impossible speed, it lunged sideways, claws outstretched, tackling Steven like a whirlwind. The force sent him crashing backward through the nearby window. Glass exploded outward in a glittering, crystalline storm.

Mitzi’s heart slammed against her ribs, breath catching. “Marc!—Steven!”

Before the last syllable left her mouth, she was already running. Wind whipped through her cape as she dove through the shattered window after them, her feet finding purchase just long enough to launch her down into the alley below. She landed in a crouch, golden armor gleaming in the flickering light, then spun sharply on her heel, ready for the worst.

And stopped.

Standing beneath the flickering haze of the streetlamp was Steven.

Perfectly fine. Sort of.

He stood upright. Not a scratch on him. But he wasn’t dressed like Steven anymore. Gone was the button down, the jacket, the panic. Instead, he wore a white three-piece suit—crisp and tailored to within an inch of its life, with sharp lapels and a matching full-face mask. White gloves covered his hands. A crescent moon gleamed at the center of his forehead. He looked like a ghost from a god-themed Bond film, or something from a divine tailor’s fever dream.

Mitzi blinked. “What are you wearing?”

Steven glanced down at himself, taking in the ensemble as if seeing it for the first time. Then he looked back at her, voice muffled beneath the mask. “You said summon the suit,” he offered sheepishly. “This is what I thought of.”

Mitzi stared at him. And then—despite the shattered glass, the monster still lurking somewhere nearby, the pulsing scarab burning in his pocket—she almost laughed. She didn’t, but it was close. He looked ridiculous.

But also… she was absolutely here for it.

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips, “But I suppose it works.”

Steven’s eyes swept over her slowly, taking in every detail, from the gleam of her golden armor to the confident set of her jaw, before he finally blurted, “Wow, I mean—you look really, um, amazing in that suit.” His gaze flicked back up to meet hers, cheeks flushing beneath the mask. “Like, not just amazing, but… wow, you’re, uh, seriously—like, hot. I can see why Marc married you.”

Mitzi raised an eyebrow, a teasing smirk curving her lips. “Oh? You think he married me because I’m hot?”

Steven’s cheeks flamed even deeper, voice stumbling out in a rush: “No, I mean—well, he says yes, but—uh, I’m still getting to know Marc, so, you know, I don’t really know all the reasons yet. But I’m sure it’s more than just that. Like, you’re smart, and strong, and—okay, I’m definitely rambling now. Sorry! I didn’t mean to say all that out loud.”

Mitzi bit back a laugh and said nothing at first. She stepped forward and straightened his jacket with a delicate hand, brushing the fabric carefully.

Steven’s heart kicked up a notch, his fingers twitching slightly as if he wanted to reach out but held back. His eyes flicked to hers, a nervous energy radiating through him. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention—especially from her—and it made his breath catch.

“You look good,” Mitzi said softly, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “It's less Moon Knight and more... Mr. Knight,” she huffed a laugh. “And this—” she gestured at the pristine white suit, “—would surely piss off Khonshu. So, in my book, that just makes it better.”

Chapter Text

MITZI’S EYES WERE STILL ONE STEVEN when suddenly the jackal lunged out of nowhere. She jumped back instinctively, heart hammering, just as the creature caught Steven in the ribs and slammed him through a metal garage gate with a terrible screech of twisting steel. He hit the pavement hard on the other side, crashing into the open street just as Layla rounded the corner, breathless.

“Steven!” she yelled, running toward him.

Mitzi bolted after them, vaulting over the ruined window frame and landing hard. Her armored boots cracked the concrete beneath her as she sprinted toward the sound of scraping claws and Steven’s panicked yelps, the glow of streetlights streaking across her golden form as she ran. Each step echoed sharp against the pavement, boots pounding with force, as her cape snapped behind her like a war banner.

By the time she reached the street, chaos had already begun. Layla was pulling at Steven’s arms, trying to help him up, only to suddenly be dragged backward, feet kicking helplessly. The jackal had her by the waist, its jaws snapping at her side as it hauled her toward the alley with a growl that seemed to shake the air itself.

“Layla!” Mitzi shouted, already moving.

She didn’t hesitate. With a running start, she leapt forward, slicing through the air with her winged cape like a blade of divine judgment and slammed into the jackal’s side with bone-rattling force. The creature yowled and dropped Layla, who scrambled away across the cracked pavement, coughing, gasping, pulling herself clear.

The jackal turned on Mitzi with fury, snarling, its muscles coiling as it launched forward again. It tackled her mid-run, its weight slamming her onto her back in a tangle of limbs and claws. The world spun for half a second—metal, streetlight, claws, heat—and then the jackal was above her, its foul breath searing her face as it lunged downward.

Its jagged teeth snapped just inches from her skin, jaws slavering. She caught its snout with both hands, locking her arms with a grimace, holding it back with all her strength. Her fingers dug into its coarse, matted fur as she strained, her arms trembling under the weight, golden bracers pressing tight to its jaw.

“Steven!” she screamed.

She heard footsteps pounding on the pavement.

Then—

“Get away from her, you!”

Her eyes darted sideways.

Steven was standing twenty feet off, chest heaving, fists raised in the most ridiculous boxer’s stance she’d ever seen. His white-gloved hands curled awkwardly, elbows crooked too high. He looked like he was halfway through mimicking a movie poster.

“Yeah,” he said, voice shaking slightly, betraying the nervousness beneath his bravado. “I see you, you plug-ugly coyote. You’re in the wrong ends, mate. You’re in my yard now.”

Mitzi just stared at him.

Flat on her back, fighting off a monster with her hands, and there was Steven. Rolling up his sleeves. Talking like a cartoon gangster from the 1940s. She blinked once. Twice. For a second, disbelief overrode panic. Her brain stalled out completely.

“Float like a butterfly. Sting like a bee,” he continued, bouncing slightly on his heels as if that would help. “My name is Steven. With a V.”

“Steven,” she managed, breathless, “What—are—you—doing?”

But then the jackal turned on him. Charged. Steven didn’t flinch. He punched it.  Actually punched it. 

The jackal staggered back, shocked. And so was Mitzi, still prone on the ground, watching him light up like a schoolboy who’d just scored a goal in gym class.

“Mitzi, did you see that!?”

The words barely left his mouth when the jackal kicked him—launched him—like a stuffed toy. He flew backward and hit the side of a parked bus with a metallic clang that made even Layla wince.

“Steven!” Mitzi cried, scrambling to her feet.

He groaned from the curb. “I’m… alright…”

Steven got up, wobbly. His eyes flicked briefly toward Mitzi, worry clear beneath his determination. Despite the danger, he couldn’t stop thinking about her—about wanting to protect her, even though it was her power keeping the monster at bay.

But the jackal wasn’t finished. It lunged again, claws scraping the road as it targeted him with murderous speed.

Mitzi reacted instantly. Her wing like cape of shadow flared wide behind her as she sprinted, trailing dark ribbons in her wake. Her entire body surged forward with a warrior’s precision, and just before the jackal could reach Steven, she slammed into it—her shoulder crashing into its ribs with a force far greater than her size should allow.

They both went tumbling, crashing into a trash bin that exploded on impact.

She hit the ground hard, rolled—and the shadows moved with her, coiling like snakes. As she came up in a crouch, her hand swept through the air, drawing forth a curved blade wrought from darkness. It shimmered in her grip, glowing faintly as if lit from within.

She didn’t hesitate.

With a fierce cry, she lunged—blade slicing across the jackal’s side. Shadows clung to the wound like tar, hissing where they touched cursed flesh. The creature shrieked, reeling, claws lashing wildly as it tried to shake them off.

Mitzi pressed forward, relentless.

Every strike she dealt came with a pulse of gold-veined black, the shadows moving ahead of her like sentient things—grasping at limbs, pulling, restraining, striking in tandem with her blade. She moved like smoke in a windstorm: fast, fluid, radiant with power ancient and divine.

But the jackal was stronger than it looked. Smarter. Its tail whipped low, catching her leg mid-swing. She faltered—just for a second. The jackal lunged.

And that’s when Steven threw himself between them.

“Mitzi, watch out!”

She barely registered the blur of white—Steven rushing in, suit torn, face pale and determined. His gloved hands caught the jackal’s attention just long enough to draw it toward him instead.

The jackal pounced.

And that’s when the car hit them both.

A sudden screech of tires. A blare of a horn. Then—Impact.

It was deafening.

The jackal and Steven were launched together in a chaotic tangle of limbs and light, crashing off the hood of the speeding car in a shriek of twisting metal. They slammed to the pavement in a bone-jarring heap. The jackal rolled and staggered upright, growling, while Steven crumpled beside the curb, unmoving.

Mitzi froze, eyes wide. The air rang hollow in her ears, her pulse deafening in her skull.

“ Oh God… ” she whispered in Arabic.

Her breath caught as she stumbled toward him, golden-black wings dragging across the asphalt, the battle momentarily forgotten. The jackal was already limping away, snarling, circling wide—but she didn’t look at it. Couldn’t. Her gaze was locked on the crumpled form of Steven Grant.

He moved.

A weak groan pushed from his throat as he shifted, coughing. With a pained grunt, he forced himself upright and reached for the side of the parked bus next to him. His fingers scraped the dented metal. One leg folded awkwardly beneath him as he leaned his weight on the panel, panting.

Mitzi stopped a few feet away, eyes wide, mouth parted in shock. Then he looked up. Not at her—but at the window. At his reflection. His brow furrowed. Then a shaky breath. Steven nodded. And the change began.

Mitzi blinked. Her breath caught in her throat as the white suit flickered.

It shimmered—silken threads unspooling midair—and began to pull away like smoke in reverse, folding inward. The torn waistcoat stitched itself closed, then vanished beneath linen wraps that twisted and wound tightly around his arms and chest. The sleeves bled into ivory cloth, ancient and sun-bleached, as his shoes thickened into boots, bracers forming over his forearms. A thick sash fell into place at his waist, fastened with a gleaming moon-shaped clasp. His hood settled low, casting shadow over his now hardened expression.

Gone was Steven. Marc stood in his place.

His jaw was set, eyes fierce, breath steady. And this time, he didn’t wait. Marc turned just as the jackal let out a shriek and lunged again—fast, feral, unstoppable.

“Mariam!” he barked.

He was already moving, boots slamming the pavement. In one swift motion, he reached out and grabbed her arm, yanking her sideways. She stumbled into him with a sharp gasp as the jackal missed them by inches, claws raking sparks off the concrete.

They hit the ground together, rolled, then came up in a crouch behind a dented car.

“You okay?” Marc asked, voice low, intense, his hands still gripping her shoulders like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Mitzi’s breath was caught between a gasp and a curse, “I’m fine,” she said quickly, eyes darting to where the jackal had skidded into a trash bin. “Get it out of here.”

Marc nodded, already rising. “On it.”

And then he was off—cloak snapping behind him like a banner of vengeance—as he sprinted toward the creature, drawing its attention away from the civilians.

A blur of white over blacktop—he sprinted straight at a wall and vaulted upward, his cape flaring behind him as he caught the edge of a building and launched higher, boots finding rooftops like they were nothing. The jackal gave chase with a shriek, claws scrabbling for traction as it scaled after him, knocking bricks loose as it climbed.

Mariam surged from behind the car, her chest still heaving, adrenaline coursing like wildfire through her veins. The night air burned in her lungs. Her wings dragged shadow behind her, great tattered arcs of smoke and memory unraveling into the dark. She didn’t pause—didn’t let herself feel the weight of the ache in her ribs or the blood still trickling beneath her armor. The only thing that mattered was Layla.

She spotted her crouched low behind a half-toppled mailbox, shoulders heaving, dirt and soot smeared across her temple. One hand gripped her pistol; the other was pressed to her thigh where her jeans had been torn open.

Mariam sprinted the last few steps.

“You need to get out of here,” she said, dropping to her knees beside her, breathless and urgent, her voice rasping like torn fabric.

Layla’s head jerked up. Her eyes flared with heat and confusion. “What? Are you out of your mind? I’m not leaving you.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Mariam lied. Her voice didn’t tremble, but it cracked—just once—and she didn’t meet Layla’s gaze.

Layla’s brow creased. She looked her over, really looked—at the way Mariam’s shoulders were squared like a woman about to walk into a storm, at the wild shimmer in her eyes, at the way her fingers twitched like she couldn’t unclench them. “You’re not coming, are you?”

“I will,” Mariam snapped—sharper than she meant. “I just… I need to finish something.”

Silence stretched taut between them.

Layla searched her face. Her jaw worked like she wanted to argue—wanted to drag her out of here bodily if she had to—but she knew. She had seen that look before. The look of someone carrying a burden they weren’t going to come back from.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t be stupid, Mariam.”

“I’m not,” she said, gentler now. “Please. Go.”

For a second longer, Layla didn’t move.

Then, with a sharp nod—swift, wordless, and full of unspoken grief—she pushed herself to her feet, limping slightly as she turned and ran, disappearing into the smoke-choked street toward her moped.

𓂀

Mariam didn’t look back.

She turned, her blade already sliding free into her palm. The metal gleamed darkly in the dim alley light, catching glints of orange from the fires licking the distant rooftops. Sirens wailed somewhere behind her, far off. The jackal shrieked again, a grotesque sound that tore across the rooftops, where Marc was locked in a savage sprint, chasing the monster into the maze of crumbling buildings.

But that wasn’t her fight.

Not tonight.

She ducked into the alley, boots crunching over glass and old gravel. The world narrowed around her. The clamor of the battle faded with each step, replaced by the eerie hush of the corridor—just brick, decay, and distant echoes. The shadows seemed thicker here. The lamplight above flickered like a candle in a tomb.

She slowed.

The air was wrong.

Heavy. Close. Every instinct screamed.

Nephthys stirred—unmistakable. A pulse at the back of Mariam’s mind, a ripple of ancient power tightening like a snare. Her senses sharpened until the scrape of rats beneath a dumpster sounded like thunder. Her breath turned slow. Controlled.

Then she saw him.

Arthur Harrow.

At the far end of the alley, beneath a fractured lamppost that buzzed like a dying fly, he stood with his back half-turned. Pale robes swayed softly around him, untouched by the filth of the alley. In front of him, crumpled and trembling, sat a homeless man—barely more than a bundle of rags, knees drawn to his chest.

In the man’s cracked, trembling hands was the Scarab.

Mariam’s gut dropped.

Her pulse roared in her ears.

“Shit,” she muttered in Arabic, breath catching. 

She gritted her teeth, pressing herself to the wall, moving forward one slow step at a time. Her wings clung close to her body, melting into the darkness. The blade in her hand pulsed with soft, shadowed light, as if responding to her fury.

Harrow’s voice drifted back to her, soft and musical, like a lullaby echoing in a crypt.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently, crouching low. “But that belongs to me.”

The homeless man blinked, dazed, his eyes cloudy with confusion and exhaustion. Harrow’s expression never wavered—compassionate, saintly, all falsehood and performance. He opened his hands as though he offered peace.

“I can give you food. A warm bed. Dignity…” he said, voice low and warm, like it pained him to say the next part. “But I cannot give you this.”

He gestured toward the Scarab.

The man blinked down at it, its golden shell still gleaming with divine light, warmth radiating faintly from it like the last ember of a dying fire. He looked up again, eyes searching Harrow’s face.

And then—trembling—he placed it in Harrow’s outstretched hand.

As if it had never been his.

As if it were fated.

Harrow smiled, serene.

“Thank you,” he said, slipping it into his robes with reverent care. “I wish you could see the world we make.”

Mariam moved without thinking. Her voice rang out across the alley like a shot.

“No!”

The word shattered the stillness. It echoed off the brick and glass, sharp and broken. 

Harrow didn’t flinch.

He turned slowly, deliberately, his movements as fluid and controlled as ever. His eyes found her. They didn’t widen. Didn’t narrow. Just studied her—like she was an equation he’d already solved.

He took in her entire figure: the soot-streaked skin, the cracked golden armor, the soft glow of Nephthys’s mark burning in her irises.

“Mariam,” he said, as if greeting an old friend.

Then—without even blinking—he turned back to the man. And placed one palm flat on his chest. The man spasmed, his body arching once, violently—and then collapsed. No cry. No plea. Just a long, shuddering breath—and stillness. His skin went ashen. His eyes glassed over. His limbs bent awkwardly, as though life had fled and rigor had begun in the same instant.

Mariam screamed—raw, furious, inhuman . More Nephthys than herself.

She lunged, shadows lashing from her hands like a cyclone. Her blade caught the edge of a dumpster and sheared it clean through—but Harrow was already stepping away, untouched, calm.

She dropped into a crouch just a few feet away from the man’s body, jaw clenched, hands trembling. The stench of death clung to the air like rot in cloth.

She stared down at the man’s corpse. His mouth was parted. His chest still. One hand was curled loosely around nothing, as though he was still reaching for something warm.

Something golden.

She didn’t realize she was crying until she tasted salt on her lips.

A fury unlike anything she had ever known tore through her, rising like a tide too vast to name. Her fingers curled. Nephthys surged up, her presence a wall of shadow behind Mariam’s skin. The wind shifted. The air snapped with static.

“You bastard.”

The words were low. Ruined. Ancient.

Harrow turned back to her, the Scarab now safe and silent beneath his robes.

“It was painless,” he said gently. “For him. For most.”

Her breath caught. Her hands flexed around her blade. It pulsed. Hummed. She could barely keep it steady.

“You won’t get away with this,” she spat.

Harrow tilted his head, as though listening for thunder in the distance.

“I already have.”

Chapter Text

BEING BEATEN UP BY MEN TWICE your size wasn’t exactly fair—even when you had a goddess on your side.

Mariam stumbled across the London rooftop, blood thick in her mouth and smoke harsh in her lungs. The acrid taste clung to her tongue, mixing with the metallic tang of her own blood. Rain slicked the tar beneath her boots, turning the surface slick and treacherous, making her steps uneven and precarious as adrenaline ebbed from her veins and pain crept in, slow and insistent. 

Every breath sent sharp reminders to her ribs, aching and tight, as if they might crack with the effort. Her side pulsed hot and wet beneath her jacket, a raw, burning ache that settled deep inside. Her shoulder screamed with every movement, a white-hot agony that radiated up her arm and into her neck—but somehow she was still standing. Barely.

She didn’t remember climbing this high. Not the exact moment or the route. Only running—wild and frantic. Ducking between grimy, soot-stained chimneys. Vaulting over low, rusted barriers. Scrambling up ancient ladders, their rungs slick with rain and neglect, the metal biting into her palms. Her breaths came ragged and shallow as she forced herself onward. Now the city stretched beneath her like a sleeping giant, glittering and indifferent, a sprawling maze of lights and shadows. It didn’t care she was bleeding, or broken, or on the edge of collapse.

Her legs finally buckled near a rusted ventilation pipe, and she dropped to her knees, the wet rooftop slick beneath her. One trembling hand found purchase on the cold surface, bracing her weight, steadying the shivers running through her limbs. She didn’t cry. Not yet. But she could. 

The silence inside her chest was vast and empty, as if Nephthys—the goddess, the power within her—was too quiet, too still. That silence rang louder than any noise, louder than the pounding of her heart or the dripping rain. It was a hollow ache that made her bones feel heavier.

Then—

Footsteps. Quick. Heavy.

She didn’t have to look up.

“Mariam.”

Marc’s voice cut through the night air—sharp, controlled, but not panicked. No breathlessness, no frantic edge—just that low, thunderous tone he always carried when he was pissed but forcing himself not to lose control.

She stayed on her knees a moment longer, chest heaving with uneven breaths. Then she slid backward, sitting down against the vent, her head tilted back toward the foggy, rain-blurred sky. The mist clung thickly, obscuring the city’s tallest towers like ghosts hiding behind a veil.

Marc stalked across the rooftop with purposeful steps, the shadows seeming to cling to him as his suit faded slowly from his limbs—Moon Knight melting back into just Marc. Blood stained his knuckles, dark and drying. A fresh scratch ran jagged across his jawline, raw and angry. He stopped a few feet from her and scowled down like she’d personally ruined his night.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I noticed, thanks,” she muttered, voice hoarse, lips cracked and raw.

“What the hell happened?”

She blinked at him, slow and dazed, her head swimming with exhaustion and pain. “You first. The jackal?”

“Dead.” His jaw flexed tight, the muscles working beneath rough stubble. “Khonshu’s having a tantrum. Harrow’s got the scarab.”

Her stomach sank lower, twisting sickly. “I saw.”

That stopped him. His expression shifted—still angry, but sharper now. More focused, less reactive. “What?”

She shifted on the rooftop, groaning softly as her muscles protested, every movement sending stabbing jolts through her side. “I got Layla out.” Her voice was low, strained. “She was trying to follow me—I made her leave. I made sure she got clear.”

“You’re lucky she listens better than you,” Marc muttered, but there was no heat in the words. Only tiredness, strain.

Mariam gave a faint, bitter laugh, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing the blood a little.

“I saw him,” she went on, voice barely audible over the wind scraping against the rooftop edges. “There was a man… homeless, maybe. He had the scarab—must’ve picked it up in the rubble when the jackal crashed through the alley. Just… lying there in the open.”

Marc swore under his breath, low and rough.

Mariam pressed a shaky hand to her side, wincing as she did. “Harrow promised him help. Food. Warmth. Said all the right things. And the man—he believed him. Gave it over like it was nothing. Just handed it to him.” Her voice cracked on the last words, fragile and raw. “And then he killed him anyway.”

Marc clenched his jaw, the line rigid and pale beneath the skin. “Mariam—”

“I couldn’t stop it,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I tried, but—I was too far. Too slow. I felt him die before I even saw it.” She swallowed hard, her throat tight with grief. “The way Nephthys pulled—it’s like my whole chest caved in.”

He moved to her fast, crouching down before her like a guardian. “Stop. Hey. Stop talking like that.” His voice was tighter now, barely holding back panic, trembling beneath the calm.

She blinked at him, dazed and fragile.

“You’re spiraling,” he said, eyes scanning her face carefully, like checking for signs of concussion or shock. “Look at me. Look at me, Mariam. Breathe.”

Mariam’s eyes sharpened, forcing herself upright with slow, careful movements despite the aching flare in her side. She brushed damp hair out of her face, revealing a pale cheek streaked with rain and blood. She turned her gaze fully to Marc, grounding herself in his presence.

“Are you okay?” she asked quietly, voice softer now, like she was trying to steady not only herself but him.

Marc’s jaw tightened for a moment longer, then he gave a short nod. “I’m fine.”

She didn’t believe him—not entirely—but she let it go, letting the silence stretch between them like the space on the rooftop around them. Then her eyes flicked past him, searching the shifting shadows of the city below, as if the answer might come from the night itself.

“And… Steven?” Her voice was hesitant, almost afraid to ask. “Is he okay?”

Marc stiffened for a moment, his eyes narrowing as a flicker of something dark passed behind them. He glanced away, jaw clenching as the sharp, angry memory of his voice cutting through the mirror returned—the moment he’d yelled at Steven to back off, to not get involved.

After a long, heavy pause thick with tension, he finally spoke. “Yeah. Steven’s fine.”

Mariam studied him for a long second, sensing the unspoken worries beneath his surface calm. “You’re sure?”

He met her gaze steadily, voice low and steady as stone. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

The rain began to pick up again, soft and steady, washing the rooftop slick and cold. Droplets gathered on their skin, cooling the heat of wounds and exhaustion alike. For a moment, the two of them just sat there in the quiet, the weight of the night settling around them like a shroud—heavy, inescapable, but shared.

Mariam shifted slightly, the wet fabric of her jacket clinging to her bruised skin, cold seeping through. She curled her arms around her knees, drawing them close as if to hold herself together. The ache inside her was a dull roar now, a constant reminder of every hit, every fall, every agonizing second she’d barely survived.

Marc’s eyes didn’t waver from her, but there was a tightness in them that Mariam had come to recognize all too well—a lock, a wall he raised whenever something dug too deep. She knew he was hiding something. Always was. There was always more beneath the surface: worries he wouldn’t voice, fears he kept folded inside himself like fragile glass.

She had tried, once or twice, to reach past it, to pry it loose with quiet questions or stubborn insistence. But every time, he shut down, retreated behind that standoffish barrier that was both his shield and his cage. The harder she pushed, the tighter he held on. So, over the months, she stopped trying.

It was easier this way. Easier to let him keep his secrets, and to bear her own pain in silence.

She folded her arms tighter around her knees, staring out over the dark cityscape, the rain tracing cold paths down her cheeks whether she wanted it or not. Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed. The night stretched endless and unforgiving. But she had learned to carry her solitude like armor.

Marc’s rough breath stirred the air beside her. He was here—quiet, watchful, but never quite close enough. And maybe that was enough. Maybe that was all she needed. Because if she pressed too hard, he might disappear altogether.

She glanced at him sideways, catching the faintest flicker of something—regret, guilt, maybe—or just exhaustion. Then he pulled his coat tighter around himself, turning his gaze back to the city. The distance settled between them again, familiar and cold.

Then Mariam’s voice broke through, soft but edged with something fragile and tentative. “Marc…” She swallowed, biting back the ache in her throat. “We disappeared for months,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “No calls, no messages. We just... vanished.”

Marc’s eyes flicked to her then—haunted, sharp, and weighed down by things unsaid. “We had to. Things got worse. It wasn’t safe for any of us.”

She let the silence hang heavy between them. She knew exactly what he meant. The past few months had been a storm—relentless pressure, threats closing in from every side.

And through it all, Marc had grown distant.

At first, she told herself it was just the weight of everything—the stress, the fear. But soon, his presence became colder, quieter. He spoke less, shut down more. And when she tried to pull him out of himself, he’d snap—snippy, irritable, shutting her out.

“I tried, you know,” Mariam confessed, voice raw with regret. “I tried to get through to you. To get you to open up. But every time it turned into a fight.”

She swallowed the bitter taste of those memories. “I didn’t want to lose you to silence. But I didn’t want us to break apart either.”

Marc’s expression flickered—softened, if only for a moment.

“So… I stopped,” she said quietly, voice low but firm. “Stopped pushing. I just… stayed. I was here. Did what you wanted. Because I love you.”

Her eyes locked with his—steady and guarded, but beneath the surface, something flickered. Vulnerability. Pain. A trace of the man she knew before everything fractured.

She looked away again, dragging in a shaky breath. The words weighed on her tongue, thick and bitter.

“I can’t keep doing this, Marc,” she said, her voice low but urgent. “I can’t keep disappearing on Layla. She doesn’t deserve that.”

Marc’s expression didn’t shift, but the tension in his jaw deepened.

“I know she’s Khonshu’s next choice,” Mariam went on. “But I can’t keep hiding because of him. I can’t keep running away from my sister like she’s a  threat when all she wants is answers.”

Marc stood silent, arms crossed tightly over his chest, the rain plastering his curls against his forehead.

“And Steven…” Mariam’s voice cracked on the name. “He trusts me. And I’m lying to him every time I speak. Every time I cover for you. Every time I say I’m fine when I’m falling apart.”

Marc’s gaze flickered. For a split second, there was a flash of guilt there—but it vanished just as quickly, buried beneath his usual wall.

“Marc—” she swallowed hard, voice cracking slightly, “I have been drowning for months. Carrying all of this by myself. You shut me out. I couldn’t lean on Layla. Steven–”

“I know,” Marc said, voice low and rough around the edges. “I know, I’ve been… hard to reach.” His jaw tightened, and after a long moment, he finally spoke, his voice low but steady.  “But when this is over... things will get better,” he told her. “I promise.”

He looked at her then, eyes dark and serious—but there was something deeper there, something unspoken lurking beneath the surface, a shadow she couldn’t quite name. A hesitation he didn’t voice. 

Mariam caught it—the flicker of doubt, the guarded flicker behind his calm. But she didn’t press. She forced herself to brush it aside, swallowing the uneasy feeling with a small, tired nod.

Chapter Text

THE ROOFTOPS OF CAIRO BLURRED beneath them—terracotta tiles slick with sand, crumbling underfoot, rusted satellite dishes spinning long shadows in the moonlight like strange sundials. The air clung heavy with heat, the kind that never lifted, not even after the sun went down. Mariam’s boots pounded in rhythm behind Marc’s, her breath ragged, curls snapping loose from the scarf knotted at the nape of her neck, tendrils of hair sticking to the sweat at her temples. The wind tore past her ears, hot and dry, kicking up little whirlwinds of grit and debris.

The heat here wasn’t clean—it was thick, clinging, like a second skin slicked with oil. It soaked through her clothes, made the metal of her belt buckle burn against her stomach, turned every breath into work. Every jump from rooftop to rooftop rattled her bones, sent sharp aches through her knees and shins, jarred her sore ribs. Her lungs burned. Her heart thudded against her chest like it was trying to warn her.

They’d been chasing the lead for hours. Across districts. Over mosques and laundry lines and satellite-cluttered terraces. Now, finally—finally—it was close. So close she could feel it pressing against her skin, humming in her bones. Close enough that even the gods inside them had gone quiet, straining forward in eerie anticipation, drawn to the thrum of something ancient stirring deep beneath the city’s crust.

“There!” Marc’s voice cut through the dark, sharp with recognition. He pointed downward, past the edge of their rooftop perch to a flat concrete expanse two levels below. “That’s him.”

Mariam followed his line of sight. The man they needed was there, his body half-shadowed in the open doorway. He was pressed against the wall, shoulders tight, hands half-raised in the middle of an argument—or maybe a negotiation. 

Across from him were three others. Strangers. No, not just strangers—threats. The tallest had one hand hidden behind his back, elbow cocked at an angle too casual to be honest. His stance was loose, too practiced. Waiting. 

Something twisted low in Mariam’s gut.

Marc hissed between his teeth. “Shit.”

The teenager moved first. He was wiry, twitchy—still growing into his limbs, maybe, but already comfortable with violence. The blade in his hand caught a sliver of light as it came up, then disappeared into the man’s stomach with a dull, wet sound.

“Ohhhh,” Mariam drawled, skidding to a stop at the ledge. One boot landed flush against the rooftop lip, the other pivoting for balance. Her fingers splayed wide. “You’re killing him? Lord.”

Marc was already moving, leaping down without hesitation. His boots hit the next roof with a thud and he rolled through the impact, rising with momentum. In his hand, the knife shimmered. He stalked toward the trio in long, furious strides.

“We needed to talk to that guy,” he snapped, voice low and dark, “About a dig site.”

Mariam sighed, “Looks like we’re gonna have to talk to you instead.”

The oldest man among the three stepped forward. His face was weathered, a map of sun and scars, his expression carved from stone. His eyes were hollow and dry, like ancient bone unearthed from desert sand.

“You’re too late,” he said flatly, voice like sandpaper. “You’re never going to find Harrow.”

Mariam dropped after Marc, landing in a crouch. Her knees bent with the force of it, pain flaring in her side as her feet touched down. Her breath caught, tight in her chest.

“You wanna bet on that?” she said coldly, her eyes locked not on the living, but on the man slumping to the ground behind them, his blood pooling fast, arm outstretched as if reaching for someone—or something—already gone.

The older man lifted his hand, the knife glinting again as he spun it once, then twice. A showy, theatrical twirl. Sleight of hand, magician’s flair—look here, not there. With a snap, he caught the blade in a reverse grip, flashing a thin, cruel smile.

Marc tilted his head, unimpressed. “Oh, wow,” he muttered. “What, are we dancing? We fighting? What are we doing?”

The answer came not in words but in motion—pure, lethal motion. The three lunged as one, a blur of muscle and steel and intent. Sharp. Practiced. Brutal.

Marc surged forward to meet them. Mariam didn’t.

She dropped low, pivoting sideways beneath a flailing arm and slipping behind a rusted crate. She ducked through shadow and shattered pottery, the clash of fists and breath echoing behind her. Her focus was singular, unwavering—locked on the man they had come to find. He was gasping now, body listing to one side, eyes wide and wet. He blinked rapidly, chest heaving, lips parted around silent words.

“Don’t move,” Mariam whispered, kneeling hard beside him. Her palms hovered over his chest, already glowing faintly gold—Nephthys’ power rising with instinctive urgency, delicate threads of light weaving from her fingertips like silk caught in wind. “You can’t die yet.”

His eyes rolled. He choked, gurgled. His lips moved, forming a shape—a word, maybe a name. It sounded like Coptic. Or maybe it was just a breath, a ghost of something lost. Mariam leaned closer, straining—

And then the thread snapped.

Not because the man had died.

But because Steven took over Marc.

“Oh God—bloody hell, I’m sorry,” Steven blurted out, blinking down at his hands as if the knife in his hand had appeared out of nowhere, as if he had conjured it in a dream. “Sorry, sorry—this isn’t me—I’m not—I’m not him—”

The men paused mid-fight, thrown off by the sudden shift. Confused. Staring.

Steven dropped the knife like it burned. “Right—just leave, yeah? Nobody else has to get hurt—just go.”

Then he turned, stumbling backward toward Mariam, boots thudding against the rooftop in frantic rhythm. His eyes were blown wide with fear, chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked gulps. Sweat streaked down his temple. He reached for her blindly, fingers clamping around her arm with desperate force.

“No—Steven, wait!” Mariam barked, wrenching against his grip. Her voice cut sharp through the air, furious, urgent.

“We’re leaving,” he gasped, voice brittle and high, thick with rising panic. “We have to go—we have to go now—”

“Steven, let go—he’s not dead yet—!”

But he didn’t. He yanked her back, hard, dragging her toward the rooftop stairs. Her boots skidded against the concrete, fighting for traction. She kicked against the pull, one heel slamming into the ground with a sharp crack.

“Stop!” she cried, twisting hard in his grip. Her shoulder nearly dislocated from the angle, but she didn’t care. “You don’t understand what you’re doing—he knows where Harrow is!”

Halfway down the stairwell, lit only by the flickering pulse of a rusted wall lamp, she tore herself free with a sharp twist. Her boots scraped against the grit-covered steps, momentum nearly toppling her as she spun back around. Before she could lose her nerve, she pushed off and sprinted up the stairs, heart pounding in her throat.

But Steven was faster than he looked.

He caught her mid-stride—one arm hooking tight around her waist, the other bracing her shoulder as he pulled her clean off the ground. Her body jerked back with the sudden force, her legs kicking at open air.

“Steven!” Mariam shrieked, startled. Her hands scrabbled against his chest and shoulders, trying to push off. “Jesus,” she muttered under her breath. “Where did the muscle come from?”

He didn’t answer. Just spun her around with brute, clumsy strength and slammed her back down onto the step, steadying her for a split second before seizing her arm again—tighter this time, fingers locked like iron. Without giving her a second to resist, he dragged her with him, feet pounding, breath ragged, every muscle in his body strung taut with fear.

“We’re leaving!” he shouted, voice cracking under the weight of it. “I’m not letting you get stabbed over a dead man and a bloody dig site!”

A cab rolled by. Steven flung his arm out and shouted, “Taxi!”

Mariam twisted in his grip, half-shoved, half-stumbling. “Steven, no!” she snapped. “You don’t get to make this choice,” she said through clenched teeth. “You don’t even speak the damn language— !”

The cab skidded to a stop with a squeal of tires and a shout from the driver.

Steven wrenched the door open and shoved her inside before she could finish her sentence. “Airport,” he told the driver, out of breath and wild-eyed. “Please. Just—airport.”

“No,” Mariam growled. “No! No, no, no, don’t,” She leaned forward, turning sharply toward the cabbie, speaking fast and fierce in Arabic: “Stop. Don’t move. Don’t go anywhere.”

The driver looked between them, one eyebrow raised, unsure who to obey.

Steven fumbled for his wallet, hands shaking. He shoved a wad of crumpled Egyptian bills at the man. “Just drive,” he said desperately. “Please.”

The driver looked at the money. Then at her. Then put the car into gear.

The cab pulled into traffic, lurching forward with a jolt. The street swallowed them at once, horns blaring, exhaust fumes filling the car like smoke. Mariam sat stiffly beside Steven, jaw clenched, hands knotted tightly in her lap. Her heart hadn’t stopped pounding. Not from the fight. Not from the rooftop. Not from Steven dragging her away from someone who might’ve saved them all.

“Stop! Turn around!” she shouted in Arabic again, voice sharp as shattered glass. “We are not going to the airport!”

The cabbie didn’t so much as glance back. He just tightened his grip on the steering wheel and turned the radio dial with one knuckled hand, cranking the volume until the speakers vibrated with a warbling Arabic love song, loud enough to drown her out completely. It was a wall. A signal. He wasn’t going to listen.

Mariam whipped around in her seat, breath fast and chest tight, her voice cracking with fury. “Tell him to stop the car.”

Steven blinked at her, still pale. “What?”

“Tell him to stop the car!” she snapped, already lunging for the door handle. “Or I’m jumping out the window.”

His expression went slack with disbelief. “You’re not going to jump out the window.”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she fixed him with a look like she could kill gods with just her eyes—cold, furious, unflinching. And then, slowly, deliberately, she reached down and curled her fingers around the crank handle. The old-fashioned window squealed as it rolled down, inch by inch.

“Mitzi!” Steven yelped, his panic spiking. “Mitzi, no—!”

The dry Cairo air rushed in like a slap, hot and dust-heavy, whipping at their faces. Her curls fluttered wildly around her shoulders as the wind poured through the widening crack.

Steven lunged across the bench seat with a flailing, desperate reach and caught her wrist. “What are you doing?! You can’t just—bloody hell, stop!”

“I told you to stop the car!” she shouted, wrenching her arm as the door handle rattled. “You didn’t listen!”

“You’re going to fall out!”

“That’s the point!”

“I just saved your life and now you’re trying to throw yourself into traffic ?!”

“We’re going, like, eight kilometers an hour! ” Mariam snapped, twisting harder. “Let me go, Steven!”

“Absolutely not!” he cried, holding onto her like she might float away on sheer rage. “Are you mental?! We don’t even have seatbelts!”

She let out a guttural growl, jaw clenched. And then she turned on him fully and unleashed a barrage of rapid-fire Arabic that hit like shrapnel. Her voice rose in tempo and venom, her accent crisp and native: “ Your personality is that of a rabid Chihuahua intent on destroying its own tail. Your powers of observation are akin to those of the bird that keeps slamming into the picture window trying to get that other bird it keeps seeing. You are walking, talking proof that you don't have to be sentient to survive, and that Barnum was thinking of you when he uttered his immortal phrase regarding the birth of a sucker.”

Steven’s mouth fell open in astonishment, somewhere between deeply offended and hopelessly lost, even though he had no idea what she was saying.

And then it happened—the shift. That almost imperceptible flicker in the air, the way her words seemed to slap against a different presence in the same body. The tension snapped, as if some internal tether had just been cut.

Marc sat there instead.

His lips curled, not quite into a grin—more a bemused twitch, like someone trying not to laugh at a funeral. “Jesus,” he said, voice low and thick with amusement. “Tell me how you really feel, Mari.”

She rounded on him without missing a beat. “You need to tell him to stop. He won’t listen to me—”

Marc didn’t argue. Didn’t hesitate. He shoved forward between the seats and barked in clear, urgent Arabic, “Stop here! Please!”

The driver flinched, startled, nearly veering into the curb as he snapped back, “You’re speaking Arabic? Why are you acting like a foreigner?”

Marc ignored the question entirely, shifting to English as he leaned harder between the front seats. “Where are you taking us?”

The driver glanced at him through the cracked rearview mirror, visibly flustered. “You are said... the airport?” he stammered in halting English.

The cab had barely started to slow when Marc stiffened. Something outside the window caught his eye—something that sent his spine straight and his fingers twitching toward the door handle.

“There,” he said, voice suddenly razor-sharp. He pointed, his whole body alert, blood humming.

Mariam whipped her head around to look.

Half a block ahead, just beyond the orange haze of the city, two men were moving quickly through the foot traffic. Shoulders hunched, heads down, clothes nondescript—but something about their posture screamed urgency. Guilt. Flight.

Marc recognized it immediately. “Hey!” he shouted, throwing the door open even as the cab was still rolling. “Let me talk to you!”

One of the men, a wiry teen, barely older than sixteen or seventeen, glanced back. His face blanched with recognition. “You just let us go, man!” he shouted, voice cracking.

Marc didn’t even break stride. “That wasn’t me!”

It didn’t matter. The kid’s eyes widened—and they bolted.

“Stop the car!” Marc barked at no one in particular, his legs already hitting the pavement.

The cab jolted to a halt. The tires screamed a little, and the driver cursed.

Mariam had to throw out an arm to brace herself as Marc disappeared out the open door, boots hammering against the cracked concrete. She blinked once, then again, heart already pounding as adrenaline surged. Then she turned on the cab driver with one final, blistering glare.

“You know,” she snapped in Arabic, each word biting like acid, “I could’ve been trafficked. Maybe don’t just take the money next time.”

The man stared at her, startled and speechless. She didn’t wait for a response—just shoved the door open and slammed it shut behind her with enough force to make the window rattle. Then she ran after Marc.

Chapter Text

HER BOOTS SLAMMED AGAINST THE pavement as she vaulted from the cab, the door still swinging behind her. She hit the ground hard, knees jolting, then surged forward into the chaos of the street. Horns blared around her in angry crescendos as she wove between screeching scooters and lurching taxis. Drivers leaned out of windows, faces twisted in fury, shouting curses that tore through the heavy air like shrapnel. The heat rising from the asphalt felt like an open furnace, searing up through the soles of her boots and prickling against her thighs, her neck, her already-slick brow.

They darted across the road in a blur of motion, reckless and unthinking. Marc reached the opposite curb first, vaulting over the edge of the sidewalk in one smooth, powerful motion. He barely looked back. Just ran. All raw instinct—muscle, grit, velocity.

She followed, lungs burning like coals in her chest, heart hammering against her ribs with punishing force. Her braid slapped against her back. Every nerve screamed. The city around them howled in time: Cairo roared like a living war drum—engines snarling, voices barking, the metallic groan of overburdened infrastructure echoing through the air like bones under strain. Everything smelled like fuel and dust and meat.

Ahead, the two men veered hard, their shadows trailing like ghosts. They vanished into a side alley—a slash of darkness between buildings—sending up clouds of trash and choking grit in their wake. A tin can bounced across the pavement. A flock of pigeons scattered, wings flapping wildly into the haze.

Marc didn’t hesitate.

He plunged in after them like a knife through cloth.

Mariam was right behind him.

They burst out the far end of the alley, stumbling into blinding sun. A wide boulevard stretched ahead—concrete bleached white by years of heat, the horizon shivering with it. Cars swerved. Someone shouted. And straight ahead, like a sudden mirage, the market opened its jaws.

It sprawled out before them in twisting layers, a labyrinth of color and sound.

Canvas awnings stretched between battered stalls like faded sails—sun-bleached, rain-stained, patched in places with duct tape and prayer. The air was thick with scent: grilled lamb, motor oil, citrus peel, sweat. Wooden crates spilled over with sticky dates and gleaming oranges, their skins split from the heat. Baskets sagged with figs and almonds. Tables heaved under tangled jewelry, piles of scarves, cheap sunglasses, and chipped tea glasses catching flashes of sun.

Smoke curled lazily from open grills, swirling into the sky with the sizzle of fat on fire. Somewhere nearby, a donkey shrieked like a broken trumpet. A child wept. A woman shouted a name over and over. The air buzzed with a thousand moving bodies—bartering, yelling, laughing, shoving.

It was deafening. Disorienting. Alive.

“Through there!” Marc called, ducking sharply left and pushing his way through a tangled knot of stunned vendors and shoppers. 

Faces turned in shock, hands flailing as bodies parted unwillingly for the sudden surge. The sharp scrape of sandals against stone filled the air as the crowd’s rhythm fractured. 

The chase plunged headlong into chaos.

The fleeing men slammed into the outer ring of the market stalls like rolling thunder. A wooden crate brimming with onions tipped violently, sending pale spheres scattering like errant marbles across the uneven ground. Shoppers cried out, scrambling to avoid the sudden avalanche of fruit. Folded tunics—carefully stacked moments before—were trampled beneath heavy boots, fabric snagging and ripping in the fray. 

One of the men crashed into a table piled high with ripe tomatoes. The impact sent the red fruit bursting and squelching, thick juice oozing and pooling across the cobblestones like spilled blood.

The older of the two men glanced back over his shoulder, eyes wild and calculating. He seized a battered wooden crate and hurled it fiercely behind him.

Marc veered left, dropping low just in time as the crate sailed through the air.

Mariam didn’t. She caught sight of it too late—her heart pounding as she vaulted forward in a desperate leap. Her knees grazed the crate’s rough edge with a stinging scrape. Her boots slid on the slick, crushed fruit beneath her, sending a sharp spray of pulp and juice into the air. She cursed under her breath, breath ragged, vision blazing with determination.

“Shit!”

Then came the barrage. The younger man tore handfuls of fruit from a nearby stand—clusters of grapes, vibrant citrus, and something heavy, red, and round. 

Marc ducked instinctively, the pelting fruit thudding and bouncing harmlessly past his shoulders.

Mariam wasn’t quick enough.

A ripe pomegranate smashed into her shoulder with a wet, sickening smack. The cold, sticky juice splattered down her arm, mingling with sweat. 

She gasped sharply, stumbling one uneven step forward—then spat through clenched teeth, “Fuck!”

She didn’t stop. She didn’t falter. Her gaze remained locked on the fleeing men, narrowed and unyielding—laser-focused like crosshairs tracking prey.

Chaos erupted around them, a living storm of noise and motion.

They ducked low beneath a line of hanging rugs—heavy textiles, faded and frayed at the edges, swaying like banners caught in a sudden gust. One of the men yanked fiercely at a tapestry dangling from rusted hooks above, sending a cascade of dust and loose threads swirling down like a choking sandstorm. The alley was suddenly draped in shadow and fabric, a makeshift barricade erected in a heartbeat.

Mariam didn’t hesitate. She lunged forward, seizing the edge of the heavy cloth with both hands, ripping through it with a ferocity born of desperation. The coarse fibers bit into her palms and fingers, raw friction setting her skin aflame, but she tore through as though the tapestry was nothing more than paper. Her breath came fast, ragged—but the gap was closing.

Nearby, a vendor’s stand buckled beneath the chaos. A wooden frame gave way with a thunderous crash, sending ceramic bowls smashing to the ground in a violent cascade. The shards glittered like deadly glass under the afternoon sun, scattering across the uneven stone like lethal shrapnel. Mariam leapt, boots skidding once on the slick surface before she caught her balance again, muscles taut and ready.

Ahead, Marc’s stride lengthened—smooth, precise, relentless—as though powered by a force beyond the flesh. His footsteps drummed a steady beat against the stones, each one closing the distance.

At their feet, a basket of fresh herbs exploded, upturned by frantic feet. Basil, mint, and coriander burst into the air in a fragrant, almost dizzying cloud—green and sharp, a sudden breath of life amidst the dust and decay.

The alleyway narrowed abruptly, funneling them into a grim, dusty corridor. Here, the shouts and clamor of the market dimmed, swallowed by towering stone walls and the fading light of late afternoon. The air turned heavy, sour with the stench of oil and rotting garbage tucked in hidden corners.

The world shrank down to one relentless sound: the slap of boots striking stone—the steady, unforgiving rhythm of pursuit.

Marc was gaining.

His breath came hard but steady, each inhale sharp and measured, fueling the relentless forward drive of his shoulders. Marc’s legs pumped with fierce determination, every muscle coiled and primed like a predator stalking its prey. The older man glanced back once—a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

That was all Marc needed.

With a sudden surge of speed, a predator’s snap, Marc lunged. His hands shot out, fingers curling into the man’s collar, yanking him backward with brutal, unyielding force.

The man’s back slammed into the narrow storefront wall, sending a spray of dust into the air. Rusted hooks trembled beneath the weight of dusty mirrors hanging like forgotten relics, their cracked surfaces catching shards of fading light. The impact made one glass shudder violently; a sharp, jagged crack spiderwebbed down its center, echoing like splitting ice in the narrow alley.

Marc didn’t hesitate. He pressed in, eyes blazing with wild fury, jaw clenched tight as steel cables under strain. Every sinew in his body was taut, ready to tear.

“Where’s Harrow?” His voice dropped low, raw and vibrating with unrelenting menace.

The man squirmed, shoulders twisting, trying to break free, but Marc shoved harder, driving the breath from his lungs in a violent jolt. The mirrors behind them swung and clinked like chimes caught in a violent storm, tension crackling thick enough to taste.

“Where is he?!” Marc snarled, knuckles whitening as his grip crushed the fabric of the collar.

“Marc!” Mariam’s voice sliced through the tension like a warning siren, sharp and urgent. “Marc, behind you—!”

He didn’t turn fast enough.

The younger man had doubled back, slipping like a shadow through a narrow gap between stalls. While Marc was locked in his fierce interrogation, the second circled like a jackal—silent, swift, desperate.

Then he struck.

With a guttural yell, the man swung something heavy and unforgiving—an iron pipe or a thick metal rod ripped free from a broken cart—arching high overhead before crashing down with savage force.

CRACK.

The sound shattered the alley’s tense silence like a gunshot.

Bone met steel with a sickening crunch.

The world seemed to tilt, the echo ringing in every nerve.

Marc’s body jerked violently, like a marionette abruptly cut loose. His legs buckled beneath him, collapsing with a heavy, thudding impact. The world pitched sideways, disorienting and cruel, as his knees slammed into the rough concrete. His shoulder followed—pain flaring sharp and sudden—before his skull struck the pavement with a dull, unforgiving smack that echoed harshly in the narrow alley.

“Marc!” Mariam screamed, a raw, desperate cry tearing free from deep in her throat. The sound burned like wildfire, fierce and unyielding. 

She tore forward, boots pounding hard against stone, every muscle coiled and driving her onward, fury blazing like a torch behind her eyes. She dropped to her knees beside him, breath ragged, heart pounding like a war drum. Without hesitation, she swung a leg over his prone form, straddling him firmly. 

Her body lowered, crouching low and tight, every inch poised for battle. One hand pressed hard against his chest, steadying him, grounding him, while the other rose in a fierce, defiant shield. Her gaze locked on the two men now facing her—dark eyes blazing with a warning that dared them to try anything. There was no hesitation in her stance, no fear. Only raw, unyielding determination.

For a long, tense moment, the men froze—uncertain, uneasy under her fierce glare.

The younger one jabbed the other sharply in the ribs with an elbow, urgency flashing in his eyes. “ Yalla, yalla —let’s go!” he barked in rapid Arabic, voice low and commanding.

Behind her, Marc groaned—a rough, ragged sound—but he made no move, still caught in the haze of pain.

“Marc?” she whispered, voice trembling, leaning close to his still form.

Marc’s lashes fluttered, trembling fragilely against the harsh glare of the alley’s scattered light. His breath hitched—shallow and uneven at first—then gradually steadied as consciousness crept back like a slow tide reclaiming the shore.

His face twitched—a subtle spasm that pulled his jaw tight, as if locking a shield of muscle and bone into place. For a long, suspended moment, he lay there, caught between worlds—neither fully awake nor entirely lost.

Then, with deliberate slowness, his eyes snapped open.

But they weren’t Marc’s eyes. Not Steven’s, either.

They held a chill that seeped into the air around them—colder, older, sharper—deep and unyielding, like the gaze of a predator silently sizing its prey.

He didn’t blink in confusion, nor did he register the chaos roaring behind them. Instead, his gaze locked onto Mariam with an unblinking intensity—slow, deliberate blinks cutting through the haze like the steady, relentless beat of a distant drum, marking time in a world that had suddenly turned strange and dangerous.

“…You alright, cariño?” The voice emerged low and gravelly, rough-edged with a Brooklyn drawl that folded seamlessly into Spanish. 

Mariam stared, caught utterly off guard with a cold shiver running down her spine, tightening her chest. “...What?” she breathed, voice barely a whisper, more question than statement.

But before she could gather her swirling thoughts, he was already pushing himself upright, muscles taut and alert beneath his skin. His eyes—those alien eyes—were fixed, unblinking, on the two men hijacking a car across the street, tracking their every move with cold precision.

“Hey!” she shouted, desperation breaking through, grabbing his arm in sudden urgency. “Who the hell are you?!”

He didn’t answer. Without a word, he yanked her along—a quiet command hidden in the steel of his grip.

She rolled her eyes, tugging her arm back with a halfhearted, almost playful protest. “Seriously? Again with the dragging? I’m not a damn puppy,” she muttered, biting back the edge of fear beneath the sarcasm.

His grip was iron—unyielding, but not cruel. Not angry. Not desperate or flailing. Just calm. Deliberate. Like he knew she would resist. Like he’d already accounted for every frantic movement she might make.

There was no fury in his stillness—only certainty. The kind of certainty that seeps in and turns bones cold, settling deep and unshakable. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His hand, locked firm around her wrist, said everything without words.

You’re not going anywhere.

Around them, the street fractured into chaos. Cairo was boiling around them—alive, pulsing, relentless. Horns screamed sharp and insistent. Motorbikes weaved recklessly through the gridlocked taxis, their engines snarling. A fruit vendor stumbled into the road ahead, sending crates tumbling—papayas splitting open in fiery orange splashes, limes scattering like marbles across the cracked pavement. The air thickened, sticky-sweet with crushed fruit and dust.

The city swelled and moved and shouted, but Mariam barely registered any of it. Her focus was fixed only on him. Marc—except… not Marc.

The scar above his eyebrow caught the light. The familiar curve of his mouth. The jaw that clenched when he was thinking too hard. But something behind those eyes was wrong. 

Still. Cold. Too focused. Like a mask worn too well, hiding something beneath.

Then, without a word, he loosened his grip on her wrist. Just for a second.

He lifted his chin toward a black car parked along the curb. Dust clung thickly to the windows. A spiderweb crack radiated from the corner of the windshield. The heat shimmered visibly off its hood, distorting the dark metal. 

His gesture was simple. Sharp. A command.

“Get in.”

The words punched the breath right out of her lungs. Not because of what he said—but how.

The voice was low. Controlled. And completely unfamiliar. There was an accent tangled in it—not Marc’s familiar tone, not Steven’s either. Something harder, colder. Something American, but not like Marc’s clipped Chicago bite. This was slower, rougher. Brooklyn, perhaps. It curled strangely around the words, dipping where they shouldn’t, pressing down in places she didn’t recognize.

Her body froze. The fine hairs along her arms rose like a warning. Getting into that car would mean giving up control. Letting this… whoever this was… decide what came next. Her brain screamed at her to move. To bolt. To fight. Her mouth suddenly went dry. 

But Mariam wasn’t about to be anyone’s victim—not without a fight.

“Like hell I will,” she spat, voice sharp as broken glass. “You think you can just grab me and I’ll fall in line? You’ve got another thing coming.”

Her eyes burned with furious light, lips curling into a fierce snarl. 

He took a deliberate step forward. 

She took a sharp step back—closing the small, shrinking space between defiance and flight.

He stopped, eyes locked on hers, voice low but absolute. “Don’t run, Mirita.”

The words struck her again—softer this time, but heavier, edged with something unspoken and impossible to ignore.

She blinked, stunned. The name echoed inside her.

Mirita.

Marc never called her that. Not with that accent. Not like that. Not at all. The roll of the “r,” the soft dip at the end—it was intimate and terrifying. Like it had belonged to her forever, though she’d never heard it before.

He took another step.

She took another back, heart pounding harder, thoughts spinning faster.

“Cariño… Don’t. Run.”

The warning hung between them like a taut thread, pulsing with quiet menace. Her chest tightened as realization settled deep inside. And then she moved.

She twisted sharply—heels scraping hard against the cracked pavement—and ran.

But he was already one step ahead.

His hands shot out, fast as a striking viper, and seized her waist before she could even take a full step back. The grip was sudden—unyielding—like iron shackles locking into place around her bones. Not crushing, not cruel… but final. Inescapable.

Her eyes went wide, breath catching in her throat before she forced it out.

“Let me go!” she barked, yanking hard, arms pushing as she fought to wrench free. Fury blazed across her face, hot and immediate. “Don’t touch me—!”

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t tighten his grip. Didn’t loosen it, either.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t rush to explain himself. He just looked at her—calm. Still. Unimpressed.

Her eyes flashed with fire as she twisted violently in his grip, fury radiating off her like heat. The second her mouth opened to speak, he was already one step ahead—anticipating the fight. His hands snapped up with swift, practiced precision, seizing her wrists and pinning them in place with unyielding strength. There was no hesitation. No uncertainty. Only purpose.

“You seriously think you can just grab me like some helpless stray?” she snarled, breath coming fast. “I’ve fought off men twice your size without breaking a sweat. You’re nothing but the puppet of a pigeon god playing at control.”

Her voice sharpened like the edge of a blade, venom laced through every word. She didn’t raise her voice to plead or cry—she raised it to cut.

“Let me go right now,” she hissed, every syllable a threat, “or I swear I’ll make you wish you’d never set eyes on me.”

That’s when he finally looked at her. Slowly. Unbothered. His gaze dropped to hers with the detached calm of someone weathering a minor inconvenience, like a man tolerating the tantrum of a stranger’s child in a crowded store. Not angry. Not shaken. Just… mildly annoyed.

And without a single word, he bent down and hoisted her up over his shoulder. Effortlessly. As if she weighed no more than a rag doll. 

The movement was so smooth, so startlingly casual, that it felt almost mocking—like he was proving a quiet, brutal point: her struggle didn’t matter.

“Marc! Steven!” she shouted, voice breaking, desperation cracking through her rage as her fists pounded uselessly against his back. “Let me go!”

But there was no hesitation in his steps. No falter. He carried her with chilling focus toward the waiting black car at the curb. The world passed around them in a smear of color and chaos—honking horns, shouting pedestrians, the thick hum of city heat pressing in.

When she tried to twist free, she switched tactics, voice sharp and demanding as she shouted in Arabic—the syllables crisp, biting. “What are you doing?!”

Still, he didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. He just adjusted his grip slightly, tightening his hold to still her movements as if silencing a struggling animal. It wasn’t cruel. But it was absolute.

Her chest heaved, and she pulled back just enough to spit out a breathless insult through clenched teeth. “Do you only speak Spanish now?!”

Then, without waiting for a response, she fired back again—this time in Spanish. Fast. Bitter. Furious. “Let go of me, cabrón!” 

The insult landed sharp as glass, but he didn’t even blink. He carried her straight to the car as if she hadn’t said a word. 

When they reached the passenger door, he set her down with mechanical precision, pressing her against the side of the vehicle with a force that wasn’t violent but gave her no room to move. No room to think. 

And that’s when his hand shot up—quick and efficient—covering her mouth just as she drew in breath to yell again. His palm was firm, fingers splayed across her cheek and jaw, holding her silent—not in anger, but in control.

“Quiet,” he said at last. His voice was low, steady, clipped with impatience—not fury, not frustration. Just a cold sort of resignation, like this entire exchange had played out in his head already, and nothing she did was going to change the outcome.

Her eyes blazed back at him, livid and unrelenting, but he didn’t flinch. He just held her there. Silent.

Then, without taking his eyes off hers, he dropped his hand slowly and gestured toward the open door. 

“Get. In.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a sentence. A line drawn. 

Before she could spit out a single word, he yanked her arm and shoved her into the car. She slammed against the passenger seat, shoulder crashing hard into the dashboard. She scrambled upright, chest pounding like a war drum, fingers darting for the door handle—

Click.

The door slammed shut and locked before she could even blink. Like a judge dropping the gavel on a bad verdict.

He slid into the driver’s seat like he owned the damn thing. Fast. Precise. No wasted moves. One hand disappeared under the steering column, the other ripped open the panel. Wires tangled out like snakes. His fingers hunted through them, lightning quick.

A twist. A spark. The engine roared awake—not a polite purr, but a savage growl.

The driver’s door slammed shut behind him. The car lurched forward. Tires screamed against the asphalt, ripping into traffic like they were on a mission.

Mariam was thrown back against the seat, breath snatched from her lungs. Her hands flailed, clutching for anything—seatbelt, doorframe, dash—the desperate anchors that might keep her from flying out.

Outside, the world blurred into streaks of color.

Inside the car? Dead quiet.

Her chest heaved, fingers still clenched tight around the door handle like it was a lifeline she might tear free to hurl herself out.

Her jaw clenched hard enough to taste metal. “You think you can just kidnap me? What the hell’s your game?” Her voice cracked sharp, anger flaring like wildfire. “Who are you? You’re not Marc. You don’t get to wear his face and act like you own me.”

She twisted toward him, eyes blazing with fury. “Answer me!”

He didn’t meet her eyes at first, fingers tightening on the wheel just for a second—barely noticeable—but it was there.

Silence stretched, thick and heavy.

The rage began to falter, the hard edges softening as a cold weight settled in her gut. The tremor in her hands betrayed her defiance. “Marc…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, uncertain now, searching.

His eyes finally flicked to hers, just once. No confusion. No guilt. No him .

Chapter Text

THE CITY BLURRED BEHIND THEM, swallowed by dust and sunlight as they roared down the cracked road leading out toward the open outskirts. Desert scrub rushed past the windows in ragged bursts of brown and gold, the sparse plants bending beneath the relentless heat and dry wind. 

The wind itself screamed through the cracked-open glass, a harsh, keening howl that tugged at loose strands of hair and carried the sharp scent of parched earth and distant fires burning beyond the horizon. Every mile they put behind the city seemed to strip away the world they knew, leaving nothing but the raw, unforgiving wilderness stretching endlessly ahead.

The man behind the wheel hadn’t spoken since she’d been forced inside the car. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might crack, knuckles white as his hands gripped the steering wheel with an iron determination. His eyes burned bright, focused like twin flames of intent, scanning the road with cold calculation. 

Whoever he was, he was not Marc. Not Steven. There was a hardness to him, an unfamiliar weight beneath the surface—something wary and dangerous that Mariam couldn’t place. He still hadn’t given her a name. He hadn’t spoken at all.

Mariam braced herself against the cold metal of the door, fingers curling tight around the edge of her seat as the car lurched and bucked over the uneven terrain. Every jolt pressed hard into her ribs, sending sharp stabs of pain through her bruised side, but she fought to stay steady, eyes glued to the vehicle they were chasing. 

Ahead, the dented sedan zigzagged wildly, packed with two older men and a wiry teenager squeezed into the cramped space. Tires screeched as the car swerved, throwing clouds of choking dust in its wake, carving wild trails across the cracked earth.

Then, suddenly, it sputtered.

Coughed.

And came to a halt.

“Shit,” she breathed, tense as she watched the sedan’s doors fly open in a chaotic flurry.

The men spilled out into the harsh sunlight, voices rising in angry shouts of Arabic curses, scattering in desperate bursts toward the rocks and scrub that bordered the road. Panic was etched into their movements, raw and palpable.

Before she could even blink, the driver’s door of her car slammed open. The man was gone.

She barely had time to shove her shoulder against the doorframe in an attempt to follow when he was already on them—a force of nature, a whirlwind of muscle and unbridled rage.

No warning. No hesitation. No words. Only fists and raw fury.

The first man barely had time to react before the stranger’s fist crashed into his ribs with a sickening crack that echoed through the dry air. The man doubled over, a guttural groan tearing from his throat, before being hurled backward, slamming hard against the car hood with a bone-jarring thunk.

The second man threw up his hands in a pleading gesture, mouth moving in frantic supplication, but the stranger didn’t give him a chance. Grabbing him by the collar, he drove a brutal knee into the man’s gut, followed by a merciless elbow smashing across the jaw. The man crumpled into the dust, unconscious before he even hit the ground.

“No—” Mariam started to shout, scrambling out of the vehicle, breath caught in her throat.

But the stranger was already turning, eyes narrowing toward the third figure—the kid. Thin as a shadow, barely more than a skeleton wrapped in skin, the teenager stumbled backward, hands raised in a trembling plea. His mouth moved rapidly, words tumbling in frantic Arabic. He tripped over stones, panic propelling his flight.

The man followed without hesitation, a dark shadow closing in on prey.

Mariam saw the coiled tension in his body—the tightening of his shoulders, the rise of his arm.

He was about to finish it.

“Stop!” She screamed with everything she had, breaking into a desperate sprint over sand and stone. “Stop! He’s just a kid—STOP!”

She reached for him just as the fist swung down. Her hand shot out, desperate, but too slow.

His knuckles caught her cheekbone with a sharp, stinging strike.

A sudden flare of heat burst behind her eyes. Her head jerked violently to the side, and she staggered back, the world tilting on its axis. The coarse grains of sand scraped against her skin as she fell hard onto the desert floor with a heavy thud that shattered the oppressive stillness.

Time fractured into jagged shards.

A high-pitched ringing erupted inside her ears, drowning out all other sounds. Coppery bitterness flooded her mouth, coating her tongue thickly. A dull, throbbing ache spread relentlessly through her jaw and neck, but it was the shock that gripped her most—a raw, numbing force that blurred everything around her.

Her fingers pressed into the unforgiving sand, clutching at the gritty surface as if it might anchor her in the midst of the whirl of confusion swirling inside her head.

She blinked rapidly, clearing the grit and flecks of blood from her eyelashes. Her breath came shallow and uneven, each inhale catching painfully in her chest. Her trembling hand slowly rose to her face, trembling as it brushed over the warm, slick wetness of blood that trickled from the fresh wound.

When she looked up—

He was staring at her.

Frozen in place.

The fury that had contorted his face just moments ago had completely vanished. In its place was a look of wide-eyed disbelief, as though he too was struggling to process what had just happened. His chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths, betraying the turmoil beneath his calm exterior.

His eyes—Marc’s eyes, yet somehow distant and unfamiliar—were filled with shock, as if waking from a long blackout and finally seeing, for the first time, the damage he’d inflicted.

And beneath that stunned silence, a terrible, chilling thought settled like a stone in her mind: if this was the strength behind those eyes—if this was what he was truly capable of—then if she ever had a reason to fight him, she would lose. Without hesitation. Without a single chance. That thought hit her harder than the strike ever could.

His arm twitched—half reaching out, half pulling back. She couldn’t tell which.

But before he could do anything else—

A wild roar shattered the moment as one of the men lunged from behind, crashing into his back, dragging him down. They fell in a brutal tangle of limbs and dirt, bodies twisting and thrashing like trapped animals.

Mariam flinched, still sprawled on the ground, cheek aching with every ragged breath.

Dust swirled thick in the air, mixing with the acrid tang of blood and sweat.

Fists pounded.

Bones cracked.

The desert fell silent but for the harsh symphony of violence.

She pushed herself up slowly, every movement agony, her heart hammering wild and uneven in her chest. Everything blurred—the chaos, the pain, the heat pressing down like a weight that threatened to crush her. Shouts rang out, mingling with the crackle of sand beneath running boots, the roar of wind across barren stone.

Then, suddenly, it all stopped.

Silence wrapped the scene like a suffocating shroud. Her ears rang painfully. A sick, wet sound echoed nearby—a thud, a gasp.

Then nothing.

She forced herself up on trembling arms, grit grinding between her teeth. Her head throbbed fiercely, chest burning with the effort to draw breath. The world wavered and blurred around her.

Just ahead, a figure knelt low over a still body sprawled in the sand. A blade gleamed—wet, deadly—in his hand, buried deep in flesh. The man who had thrown her—the stranger—was crouched over the lifeless form, breath ragged, fingers clenched tight around the hilt. Crimson slicked his knuckles and stained the earth beneath.

The victim’s eyes stared blankly upward, glassy and unseeing. The stranger’s body shifted.

Marc. Marc was back.

His breath hitched sharply. His gaze dropped down slowly, almost unwillingly, to the blade clenched tightly in his hand, and the dark, sticky blood clinging thickly to its edge. Confusion twisted across his face—dark and raw, etched deep with disbelief.

“What the hell...?” he whispered, voice trembling and barely audible, thick with shock.

He yanked the knife free with a wet, sickening sound that seemed to echo in the still air. The blade caught the dying light, gleaming cruel and sharp—a bright red flash in the fading sun. Marc caught his own reflection in the polished steel, frozen in that brutal moment.

And somewhere, deep within that sharp surface, Steven stared back at him. Eyes wide, mouth parted in silent horror.

“Steven?” Marc breathed hoarsely, disbelief choking his voice. “What... what did you do?”

“I didn’t—!” Steven’s voice echoed faintly from the reflection, thick accent trembling through the haze. “I swear, mate, I didn’t do that!”

Marc spun sharply on his heel, eyes flickering rapidly from the dead man on the ground to his own bloodied hands, then to the knife in his grip. None of it made sense.

Suddenly, a broken, pained whimper broke his focus. There, a teenager lay crumpled on the ground, clutching a twisted ankle that was already swelling rapidly. Tears streaked the dust from his cheeks, mixing with the grit and grime. He hadn’t fled. His terrified eyes locked onto Marc’s. 

Marc stood rigid, knife forgotten, hanging loosely by his side now. The boy recoiled, dragging himself backward across the rough sand with trembling arms.

“Take him to the edge.” Khonshu’s voice cracked cold and unforgiving inside Marc’s mind.

His body stiffened, every muscle taut. His grip on the scarf tightened, fingers trembling with fierce restraint. “He’s just a kid,” Marc growled, voice low and hoarse.

“He’ll talk.”

With merciless strength, Marc hauled the boy upright. The teenager screamed, twisting in desperate panic, dragging the injured ankle across sharp stones, but Marc held firm, unyielding. The scarf wound tight in his fist was an unbreakable leash.

“Marc...” Mariam’s voice broke through the haze—raw, broken. “Marc—don’t—” Her breath was ragged, words scraping out in gasps. 

She pushed herself upright on trembling legs, blood pounding in her head, ribs aching with every painful breath. “Marc... stop...” she whispered, barely audible… and he didn’t hear.

They reached the cliff’s edge. The earth yawned below them—a merciless chasm carved deep into the desert floor. Jagged stones caught the last rays of sun, sharp and blinding. The wind howled through the canyon like an ancient beast, cruel and untamed.

Marc yanked the boy forward. The teenager’s body twisted wildly, flailing helplessly.

Marc lifted him high—weightless in that moment—holding him out over the void by the scarf wrapped tight in his fist. 

His voice cut sharply through the roaring wind—cold, absolute. “Where is Harrow?”

The boy clawed desperately at the scarf, sweat slicking his terrified face. For a breath, fear cracked the hardness in his features. Then—stillness.

He looked up, whispering like a prayer, barely audible. “Praise Ammit.”

The movement was too fast. A flash of steel. A flicker of light. The scarf slipped through Marc’s grasp. The boy fell. No scream. Just silence and a thud.

That scraped at Mariam’s mind like shattered glass.

Marc stood frozen, chest heaving in ragged bursts. His face unreadable—caught somewhere between shock and numbness. Blood stained his fingers. Dust clung to his sweat-damp brow.

From the cliff’s edge, Khonshu’s voice came—cold, detached, almost bored. “I thought he’d talk.”

Marc exhaled slowly through his nose, but the breath offered no comfort. The empty scarf unfurled like a ghost in his hand. He clenched his fist tight and turned from the abyss, boots crunching over sand and stone beneath him.

And that’s when he saw her.

Mariam.

Still crumpled in the sand, her body trembling as she struggled to rise. One arm was wrapped tight and protective around her ribs, as if trying to hold herself together, while the other braced shakily against a jagged rock smeared dark with fresh blood. The gritty sand clung to her skin and clothes, mixing with the faint trickle of sweat and dust that coated her.

Panic twisted violently in Marc’s chest, sharp and sudden. His heart dropped with a heavy, gut-wrenching thud that seemed to silence the desert wind.

“Shit—Mariam?” His voice cracked with urgency and fear as he broke into a sprint toward her, boots pounding hard against the cracked, sunbaked earth, scarf trailing wildly behind him, forgotten and flapping in the hot breeze. “I’ve got you. It’s okay. Just—”

Closing the distance in a few desperate strides, he reached her from behind and wrapped his hands around her waist, careful not to jostle her, trying to steady her fragile frame, to anchor her in the chaos. But as his arms tightened protectively, she suddenly flailed—wild, panicked, desperate. Her hands clawed frantically at his wrists, fingers digging in with frantic urgency, trying to pull him away as if he were a threat.

“Get off of me!” she gasped, her voice trembling, raw with shock and disbelief.

Marc frowned deeply, his voice dropping low and urgent. “Mariam, it’s me—Marc. You’re safe. It’s me.”

Frustrated, but gentle, he carefully spun her around to face him, hoping that by meeting her eyes he might calm the storm raging inside her, build a fragile bridge back to trust. 

But the sudden movement made her flinch violently, as if she’d been struck again. “Let me go!” she shouted, voice desperate and strained.

With a frantic push fueled by panic, she broke free from his grasp and stumbled backward, collapsing heavily onto the rough sand again. She lay there, breath ragged and uneven, chest heaving as if caught in a silent scream, staring up at him—her eyes wide, glassy, frozen somewhere between shock and pure, raw fear.

Marc’s chest tightened painfully, a crushing knot of confusion and heartbreak twisting deep inside him. He didn’t understand. He thought she was still seeing him as one of Harrow’s men—not that it was he himself who had hurt her.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly, voice breaking with vulnerability and desperation. “It’s me. It’s Marc.”

But she was caught in a whirlwind of disbelief and panic, too stunned to respond, too overwhelmed to trust. The terror held her captive, silent and suffocating.

Then Marc’s eyes flicked involuntarily to her face—and his breath hitched. A red, angry mark was blossoming on her delicate cheekbone—the first cruel trace of a bruise, vivid and cruel against her tan skin. His jaw clenched hard, fists tightening at his sides as a fierce, raw anger surged beneath the surface, hot and dangerous.

“Who did this to you?” he growled, voice low and sharp, cutting through the dry desert air like a blade, laced with helpless fury.

Without waiting for an answer, he took a determined step forward, reaching out again, his hands trembling slightly as he tried once more to close the distance between them, to steady her, to protect her. But Mariam recoiled instantly, eyes wide and frantic, backing away as if he himself were the threat—the man she had feared all along. In that instant—the way she flinched, the terror etched deep and unyielding in her gaze—something snapped into place in Marc’s mind.

His heart plummeted into a cold abyss.

He shook his head slowly, disbelief twisting cruelly into self-loathing. “Did I… do this to you?” His voice cracked, heavy with guilt, anguish, and a desperate need for truth.

Mariam’s eyes remained locked on him, wide and silent, stunned into wordlessness.

He swallowed hard, voice trembling as he struggled to find the right words, trying to break through the wall between them. “I don’t know what happened, Mariam. After that guy hit me—I blacked out. I don’t remember anything after that.”

He swallowed again, voice shaking as he pushed forward, every word bleeding with desperation. “Was it me?” he asked quietly, the raw edge of pain breaking through. “Did I hurt you, baby?”

Her gaze flickered away briefly, then back—a silent confession, heavy with fear, disbelief, and sorrow.

Marc’s chest tightened so sharply it felt like it might shatter.

Anger flared—not at her, not at anyone else—but at himself, a furious storm raging inside.

He took a slow, tentative step forward, heart pounding with a tumultuous mixture of hope and dread. Mariam didn’t move. She only looked up at him, her eyes glossy and wide, shimmering with unshed tears that caught the harsh sunlight—a fragile silence hanging heavy and fragile between them.

“It’s me,” Marc’s voice cracked, thick with raw emotion. “I would never hurt you. I don’t understand what’s happening but I’m here—I swear.”

Her breath hitched, shallow and uneven, and then came a trembling whisper—his name—barely audible, fragile as glass. It slipped from her lips like a prayer she wasn’t sure she was allowed to say. Desperate. Disbelieving. Laced with the unmistakable ache of longing and the raw sting of fear.

And then, as if something inside her cracked wide open—something buried and straining finally giving way—she moved. A single heartbeat passed. Another. And then she rushed into his arms.

There was no hesitation this time, only the release of something she'd held back too long—grief, terror, confusion, love—all colliding into motion. She collided with him like a wave breaking on the shore, all breath and urgency and trembling limbs. Marc caught her instantly, instinctively, like gravity pulling him to her. His arms wrapped around her protectively, firmly, without pause. 

Her body shook against his, not with sobs—no tears came yet—but with the violent silence of someone who had been holding everything in for too long. Every tremor that passed through her seemed to come from the marrow, the aftershocks of something that had broken deep inside.

He held her tighter than ever before, like he could keep her safe just by holding her together—like if he squeezed hard enough, he could keep the pain out, keep the past at bay, hold time still.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he whispered against her hair, voice breaking with fierce tenderness. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. I’m sorry… I’m sorry.”

Chapter Text

MARIAM LEANED AGAINST THE battered hood of a dusty car, eyes unfocused and distant, her breath shallow as she spaced out into the swirling desert heat. The world around her was blurring at the edges — but the voices behind her cut sharply through the haze.

“If we can’t find Harrow’s digging crew,” Marc’s voice was hoarse, scraping against the thickening silence between them, “we’re gonna have to stop them another way.”

Khonshu said nothing. He didn’t have to. The stillness of the moment filled the space like a weight, heavier than any words could be. Marc stood rigid, jaw clenched, waiting for the god to offer even a scrap of acknowledgment.

But the silence stretched long and cruel.

Khonshu’s beak tilted slightly, his voice dripping with disdain as he finally broke it. “She is weak,” he said, eyes fixed on Mariam’s retreating figure. “To let something so small affect her so much.”

The words hit like a slap—sharp and unforgiving. Mariam’s jaw tightened, a slow burn of fury igniting beneath her skin. Marc’s fists clenched at his sides, his entire body bristling with silent rage.

Without a word, Mariam pushed off the car and began to walk away, her pace clipped, purposeful.

“Mariam—” Marc started after her, his hand instinctively reaching out—muscle memory from too many battles fighting to hold her back when she should’ve been left alone.

But she was already moving, the distance growing between them.

“Where are you going?” Marc’s voice pitched upward, panic threading through the question as he hurried after her.

“Away from the stupid pigeon god,” she snapped without looking back. “Before I commit sacrilege.”

Khonshu’s beak dipped in a mock bow, an avian tilt of amusement as he watched her retreating form. “You cannot control your wife?” he mused, voice light but sharp, like commenting on a particularly unruly pet.

Marc spun around instantly, shoulders squared and eyes blazing as he stepped between them. “Don’t,” he warned, voice low and cutting like shattered glass.

Mariam halted, turning slowly, deliberately. Her gaze was cold steel, unyielding and carved from stone.

Her voice was quiet—dangerous in its calmness—the kind of calm that heralds a storm.  “What did you just say?”

Marc moved swiftly, instincts kicking in, sliding back fully between them. “Mariam, let it go. He’s baiting you.”

“No,” she said, voice steady, unflinching as she held Khonshu’s gaze. “He thinks I’m a problem, then I’ll be a problem.”

Khonshu rose from his seated perch like smoke, tall and silent and suddenly oppressive, casting a shadow that swallowed the dying light. The air thickened around him, trembling with a quiet power—as if the world itself had stilled to listen.

“I merely asked a question,” he said, voice low and dangerous, but calm enough to chill blood.

“And I’m giving you an answer,” Mariam snapped, voice sharp and fierce enough to cut glass. “You don’t get to speak about me like I’m an object. And you sure as hell don’t get to pit us against each other.”

Marc lifted a hand again, stepping between them like a fragile shield against the brewing storm, voice strained thin. “You’re not helping. Please.”

But Mariam’s breath was quickening, her shoulders coiling tight, her whole body wound like a bowstring drawn too far. Her fury had weight, heat—filling the space with a wildfire’s crackle.

“You are reckless. Unstable. You let your feelings dictate your actions—”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she barked, flinging an arm toward the vast, barren cliff behind them as if to highlight the absurdity of their situation, “did the overgrown turkey just call me emotional?!”

Khonshu’s form stretched taller, bones gleaming ominously beneath his dark robes. Shadows curled like smoke at the hem of his garments, and the wind twisted around him like a living thing—held back only by his will.

“Tread carefully, little bird,” he warned, voice ancient and crackling like dry thunder. “You would not be the first mortal to regret raising her voice to a god.”

That was enough.

Marc stepped forward, placing himself fully in front of Mariam, square in Khonshu’s imposing path. His body was taut like a wire pulled to its breaking point—no hesitation, no fear. Only fire.

“Back. Off.”

Khonshu’s robes billowed around him, swept by unseen winds that whispered through the dying light. His skeletal hand tightened around his staff, the ancient wood groaning softly.

“She forgets who she speaks to,” Khonshu intoned, voice low and menacing.

“I don’t forget,” Mariam hissed, heat flaring in her eyes as she surged forward, the fury inside her threatening to erupt.

But Marc caught her waist—gentle, not rough, but firm. The protective edge in his touch was unmistakable, the desperation in his fingers wrapping around hers barely contained.

His voice dropped to a low, aching plea. “Don’t.”

Mariam’s body stiffened.

Don’t run, Mirita.

The words echoed in her mind, sharp and unwelcome. Something about that memory made her flinch—a quick, subtle twitch she tried to hide, but couldn’t.

Khonshu was probably right. It wasn’t like the other part of Marc—the one besides Steven—had tried to kill her. But the unknown carried a weight all its own, something tangled with fear and uncertainty that settled deep in her bones.

Mariam’s flinch didn’t go unnoticed. Marc’s eyes softened immediately, guilt flickering beneath the fire. He hadn’t meant to startle her. The weight of everything between them pressed down on him, and for a heartbeat, his anger and urgency gave way to something more fragile—regret.

He loosened his grip just a fraction, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper.  “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to—”

But Mariam had already turned away, jaw tight, shoulders squared, shutting him out.

Then the wind shifted—a subtle ripple in the air, like a breath drawn through the cracks of the world. Shadows deepened and twisted, coalescing into a form both ethereal and commanding.

Nephthys appeared.

Her presence was sudden and undeniable, a shadow woven from dusk and secrets. Her eyes gleamed with ancient light, stars caught between worlds, shimmering with a power that silenced everything around her.

“Enough, Khonshu,” Nephthys spoke, her voice soft but steady—an unyielding command that cut through the tension like a blade. “We have no time for you to pick petty fights.”

Nephthys’s voice boomed out in an echo, laced with power ancient as sand and stars. “Harrow moves unchallenged. He seeks the tomb of Ammit, and with every breath we waste, his shadow grows. If he is not stopped, the cost will be measured in blood and souls.”

Marc stepped forward, the weight of her words settling like dust on his shoulders. “What about the other gods?” he asked, his voice rough. “Are they just gonna stand by and let this happen? Let some lunatic unleash Ammit?”

“To signal for an audience with the gods,” Khonshu said slowly, his voice flat with the kind of tired patience one reserved for explaining dangerous truths to idiots, “is to risk their wrath.”

Marc stared at him, incredulous. “Why? What’s the worst that could happen?”

Khonshu turned then—slowly, deliberately—toward Marc. The movement held weight. Not just theatrics, but something deeper. A warning that seemed to vibrate through the stone beneath their feet. The tip of his staff struck the earth with a dull, final thud. 

“Anger them enough,” he said, voice low and hollow, “and they will imprison I and Nephthys in stone.”

Marc’s brow furrowed, something unreadable flickering across his face—skepticism, maybe. Or bitter memory. “That doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

A beat of silence followed—not total, but close. Then Khonshu let out a sound: dry, disdainful. Not quite a laugh, not quite a growl. It rumbled like a boulder grinding beneath the earth, the sound of patience eroding past its limit.

“See how you fare against Harrow without the protection of my healing armor.”

Marc threw up his hands, frustration boiling over in every sharp motion. “Alright! So what? You got any good ideas?”

Khonshu’s head tilted forward, ever so slightly—an eerie mimicry of narrowing eyes, though his skull held none. The faintest shimmer of moonlight rippled along his form, a ghostly gleam glowing from within his bones like a storm trapped behind clouds.

“I have a bad one,” he said.

And then—without another word, without a sound—he vanished.

Marc looked around sharply, his posture going rigid. “Khonshu?” he called, his voice laced with suspicion now, clipped and sharp. His eyes scanned the open desert, darting to the rocks, to the sky, to the horizon. “What the hell was that supposed to mean?”

Nothing answered.

Not the god’s familiar rasp. Not the hollow boom that sometimes accompanied his presence. Only the wind.

It shifted—subtle at first, then curling low across the dunes, brushing sand in thin rivulets that whispered like distant voices. The air grew dense. Still. Heavy, as though some vast, invisible presence had stepped into the world and drawn in a breath.

Then came the ripple. It wasn’t sound—not really. Not anything that touched the ears.

It moved through the world like pressure, like gravity shifting—too low to hear, too deep to see, but present all the same. It passed through the ground, through the soles of their feet, through their chests, as if the world itself had shuddered. Like something ancient had stirred in its slumber. Like something old and buried had rolled over in the dark and sighed.

Mariam froze. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose. Her pulse thudded too loud in her ears. She lifted her chin slowly, her gaze drawn skyward with a quiet dread.

The desert sun still burned overhead—but not as fiercely. Its blinding light had dulled, its edges softening. She squinted, raising a hand to her brow—and then she saw it.

The moon. Sliding across the sun. Not fast. Not frantic. But with slow, deliberate purpose. A sliver of perfect darkness creeping over the golden light.

The change was so gradual it almost felt imagined—until the shadows changed. Until the warmth began to pull away. Until the sunlight took on that strange, yellow cast, like light filtering through sickly glass.

Marc followed her stare. “What the—” The words stumbled out of him and caught halfway. He stopped moving, lips parted, brow drawn tight as he watched the eclipse unfold. “No...”

There was no mistaking it. No dismissing it as coincidence. The eclipse wasn’t on any calendar. There’d been no warning. No scientific explanation. No natural rhythm to blame. The moon moved with unnatural grace, positioning itself with divine intent. The heat of the desert began to ebb. Not drastically—but noticeably.

A hush fell.

Not the usual silence of the open dunes, but something heavier. Denser. The kind of silence that made the skin crawl. That filled the lungs like smoke. That made the world feel watched.

The color bled from the landscape. Everything dulled—sand, stone, sky, even the blood drying on Marc’s hands. As though the eclipse was leeching the vibrancy from the world, painting it in ash and shadow.

Shadows grew long and distorted, reaching across the sand like fingers. The wind stilled, held mid-motion. Even the air seemed afraid to move.

Mariam's brows pulled tighter. Her voice dropped low, uncertain and uneasy, barely louder than breath. “What is he doing?”

Her heart beat faster. It wasn’t fear. But it was close.

Beside her, Nephthys stood silent. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink. Her eyes remained fixed on the sky, face unreadable. Not alarmed. Not surprised. Just still.

Watching.

The ancient lines of her face were drawn, not with panic, but with something older. Weariness. Understanding. A kind of inevitable resignation. 

Then—slowly—she sighed. Long. Measured. Like someone who’d seen this before and wished they hadn’t. Like someone watching a spark fall into dry grass, knowing exactly what was coming and knowing they could not stop it.

“He is sending a signal,” Nephthys said finally. Her voice was quiet, but it rang clear through the darkening air. “One the gods cannot ignore.”

Marc’s head turned sharply toward her. But Nephthys did not look at him. 

The eclipse deepened.

A golden ring remained around the darkened moon, burning like a halo, like an eye, like a wound in the sky that refused to close. The wind began to hum. Low and strange. A vibration more than a sound. The kind that made teeth ache. The kind that set the sand quivering in tiny waves, like a drumbeat too deep to name. 

The desert itself seemed to recoil, pulling back in tension as the light failed. And in that unreal half-light, the world began to hold its breath. Mariam felt her hands curl into fists without thinking. Her skin prickled. Her mouth had gone dry.

The eclipse was total now—sunlight strangled into shadow, the sky cast into an unnatural dusk that was neither night nor day. The horizon bent. The colors twisted. The wind hissed through the rocks in a sound that could have been a whisper or a scream.

Chapter Text

THE ECLIPSE CAST CAIRO IN A STRANGE yellow hush, shadows long and golden as Mariam and Marc raced down a crumbling stairwell carved between buildings. The city around them blurred—sandstone walls, corrugated rooftops, half-finished rebar jutting from balconies. The sun above was a sickle of fire behind the moon, and everything underneath it felt suspended, holding its breath.

Footsteps echoed down the narrow alleyways, their own mingling with the distant cries of startled birds and the confused shouts of people on the street.

“That,” Mariam sighed, ducking under a stone arch, “Was a bit much, don’t you think?”

A cold shape swept past her shoulder. Khonshu didn’t walk—he simply appeared , flickering like an afterimage, vanishing again before his feet ever touched the ground. His skeletal frame reformed a dozen paces ahead, then to their right, then above them on a balcony, his staff catching the dying light.

“Hurry,” he intoned, voice echoing like stone dropped into a vast cavern. “They are gathering their Avatars now.”

Marc slowed just enough to glance up at him, frowning. “Aren’t they scattered across the world?”

“They are,” said Nephthys, her voice at his side before her form emerged—calm and composed despite the chaos rippling around them. She moved like dusk incarnate, like silence given shape. “But for a meeting with the Ennead, a portal presents itself anywhere it is needed.”

She turned down a tight corridor—just wide enough for one person to pass through—and raised her hand.

The stone rippled.

The wall at the end of the alley didn’t break, didn’t shatter—it shifted , like reality sliding sideways. A doorway revealed itself where there had been none. Warm golden light spilled out from within, catching every particle of dust in the air and painting their faces in its glow.

Marc stared at it, his breath catching. The entrance pulsed with ancient power, humming beneath his feet like a second heartbeat.

Khonshu stopped at its edge. “Last time I spoke to the gods,” he said, voice low and bitter, “They banished me.” His beak tilted slightly toward Marc. “Our case against Harrow must be indisputable.”

And with that, he turned and walked away—disappearing into the sky in a silent burst of silver light, as if the moon itself had reclaimed him.

Marc blinked after him, incredulous. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Oh, I’ll be there,” came Khonshu’s voice, disembodied now, scattered in the wind.

Mariam exhaled sharply, her gaze tracking upward before dropping again. “Great,” she muttered. “Because this isn’t intimidating at all .”

Nephthys turned to her, her expression unreadable. “You will not be alone. I will speak through you.”

“Wait—what does that mean—?”

But before Mariam could finish, the goddess was already gone, her form dissolving into shadow, trailing off like smoke down a hallway that didn’t exist a moment ago.

𓂀

The inside of the pyramid was vast, cathedral-like in its stillness, yet heavier than any holy place Mariam had ever stepped into. The air was dense, not with dust, but with presence. Power hummed in the walls, ancient and thrumming, like a song carved into stone.

Golden-bronze surfaces stretched upward, lit only by soft, flickering light that had no clear source—warm and diffuse, as though the walls themselves remembered sunlight. Everything gleamed with age and reverence. The space was both cavernous and intimate, every step echoing too loudly on the polished stone beneath their feet.

Along the curved perimeter walls stood massive statues—animals wrought from obsidian, gold, and sandstone. A falcon with its wings half-spread, eyes sharp and watching. A lioness crouched as if ready to spring. A jackal. A serpent coiled mid-strike. Their sizes ranged from imposing to monstrous, their expressions frozen in divine judgment. It was like walking through a tomb where the gods themselves stood sentinel.

And at the center of the far wall—colossal, solemn, and unmoving—stood a single, towering statue of a pharaoh. The face was serene, carved with impossible precision, the features weathered but still unmistakably regal. It watched them, unblinking.

Mariam’s steps slowed to a halt. Her mouth parted slightly, her breath catching in the back of her throat. Awe lit her face—not the brittle awe of fear, but the kind rooted in reverence. In wonder. Her eyes moved across every detail, soaking in the gold, the symbols, the artistry older than empires.

Marc came to a stop beside her, and despite the looming judgment of stone gods all around them, he let out a small, dry huff of a laugh.

She turned toward him, eyebrows lifting. “What?”

He shrugged, trying to suppress a smile. “Nothing. It’s just… Steven’s geeking out too.”

Mariam let out a breath—half a laugh, half an exhale—and rolled her eyes, but it was fond. “Of course he is.”

Her gaze drifted back toward the walls, the great stone faces and ancient watchmen staring down at them through the centuries. Her smile faded into something softer, more fragile.

“If Baba were here,” she said quietly, “He’d have fainted on the spot.”

Marc looked at her— really looked. His expression twitched into a half-smile, half-frown, something caught between warmth and the shadow of grief. But he didn’t say anything. He just stood beside her in the quiet, letting the weight of what wasn’t said hang gently in the golden air.

From the shadows of adjoining corridors, figures began to emerge—one by one, deliberate and unhurried, as if they were part of some silent ceremony that had begun long before Marc and Mariam ever arrived.

Each Avatar stepped forward with quiet gravity, marked in subtle ways by the deities they served. Some wore ancient insignias woven into modern jackets and robes. Others shimmered faintly, as if the very light bent differently around them, reluctant to touch or eager to obey. None spoke—not yet. They merely took their places in a wide, deliberate arc around the inlaid Eye of Ra that gleamed at the chamber’s center, standing like living obelisks awaiting judgment.

Then came a voice—light, amused, wholly unbothered by the tension threading through the air like a drawn bowstring.

“Khonshu’s theatrics are unparalleled,” said a woman with a smooth Central American accent, her words touched with gentle humor.

She entered the chamber with effortless grace, her orange dress rippling like sunlit silk. Gold and terracotta beads shimmered in the braids of her dark hair, catching the low light like embers. She radiated warmth—not just in presence, but in something deeper, ancient, and familiar. Like the last rays of a setting sun.

Her eyes settled on Marc. “You must be his Avatar.”

Marc straightened reflexively, posture taut with wariness, though his tone stayed polite. “That’s me.” A pause. “And you are…?”

She smiled, bright but soft. “Yatzil. Avatar of Hathor, goddess of music and love.”

Marc gave a single nod, guarded, but respectful.

Yatzil tilted her head, amusement deepening her smile. “Surely Khonshu has mentioned her.”

Marc let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Uh, no. Gods aren’t exactly his favorite subject.”

Yatzil blinked in mock surprise. “Not even when they are old friends?”

Marc shook his head. “Especially not then.”

Yatzil laughed—a sound like chimes caught in a warm breeze, light and lilting, unbothered by the solemn air of the chamber.

And then—from the far reaches of the hall—a whisper spiraled through the air. It wasn’t spoken aloud, not truly, but it moved like sound nonetheless: a soft, echoing hush that curled through the stone like incense, laced with amusement and memory.

Yatzil’s head tilted toward the sound. She hummed, half to herself. “Hathor says it was not so long ago that Khonshu delighted in her melodies.”

Marc snorted. “Well, as far as I know, the only melody Khonshu enjoys is the sound of pain.”

Yatzil murmured, the corners of her mouth curving, then her gaze shifted. 

She turned toward Mariam, and something in her expression changed. The mirth fell away, replaced by something softer—reverent, almost solemn. She stepped forward and gently took Mariam’s hands in hers, her touch warm, grounded, steady.

“And you,” she said, voice rich with meaning, “you must be Nephthys’ Avatar.”

Mariam blinked, caught slightly off guard. “Uh—yes. I am.”

Yatzil’s smile deepened, tender now. “Then we are kin, in a way. Sisters, through our goddesses.” She gave Mariam’s hands a light squeeze. “Hathor sends her love. She’s pleased her sister has chosen well.”

Mariam smiled—just slightly—but it was real. There was something warm in Yatzil’s touch, something familiar, as if a thread of shared divine memory passed quietly between them. A quiet comfort. A feeling of sisterhood she hadn’t known she needed until then.

A deep voice cut through the chamber’s heavy silence.

“Yatzil.”

The words were calm but carried unmistakable authority.

The speaker emerged from the shadows—a middle-aged man dressed in an impeccably tailored navy suit, his presence commanding without effort.

He was the Avatar of Osiris.

Yatzil bowed her head immediately, respectful, but steady and unflinching. Without hesitation, she turned and began her walk toward the council’s crescent, her soft footsteps swallowed by the reverent hush of the chamber.

Mariam followed close at her side, her instincts tightening her spine, every sense alert.

Marc fell into step behind them—silent, sharp-eyed, scanning the dim surroundings with practiced caution.

As they climbed the worn stone stairs, Yatzil leaned slightly toward Mariam, her voice low and light, almost conspiratorial. “Has Nephthys explained how these meetings work?”

Mariam gave a slight shrug, her voice steady but uncertain. “She mentioned it. Not in detail.”

Yatzil offered a knowing smile, her tone conspiratorial as she ascended to her place among the others. “Try not to fight it,” she said lightly, stepping onto her appointed dais. “It’s a strange sensation. But you’ll get used to it.”

Mariam stared after her, eyebrows raised, still processing the weight of what was unfolding.

Marc came to stand beside her on the central inlay, his gaze sweeping over the gathered figures. “Starting to feel like a trial,” he muttered.

Before Mariam could answer, a subtle shift passed through the chamber—like a ripple distorting glass—soft but undeniable.

Yatzil’s posture straightened unnaturally. Her expression slackened, her irises flooding with molten gold. When she spoke again, it was no longer her voice.

“In attendance,” said Hathor, speaking through her Avatar, voice deep and resonant, “Horus. Isis. Tefnut. Osiris. Hathor.”

With each name, the corresponding Avatar stilled, and something ancient and immense surged within their forms. Their eyes ignited with divine light—silver, blue, copper, and green—each one aflame with the presence of their god.

Then Hathor—still using Yatzil’s voice but now loud and echoing from every carved surface—declared:  “Here to hear the account of Khonshu, supported by Nephthys.”

Mariam’s breath caught, her chest tightening.

Marc shifted beside her, fingers curling loosely at his side.

And then they both felt it.

Descent.

A sensation rippled through them—like the world narrowing, folding, tilting inward. It was not painful, not even physical, but inevitable. As if falling inward, deeper and deeper toward some hidden core of themselves. Their limbs did not move, but their forms shimmered—something else, someone else, rising to the surface.

Marc’s eyes darkened beneath his brow; the tilt of his head sharpened into something colder, harder. When his voice came, it was not his own but Khonshu’s: cold, imperious, and bone-deep.

Mariam straightened, shoulders drawing back, her gaze steady as moonlight rippling on still water. Her mouth parted—and when she spoke, it was Nephthys: warm, weightless, timeless as shadow.

“You’ve been banished once for nearly exposing us, Khonshu,” Osiris’s voice cut through the chamber, low and resonant like judgment carved in stone. “And you know we despise your garishness—your showy masks and weapons. Manipulate the sky again, and we will imprison you in stone.” The threat cracked like thunder, shattering the heavy silence.

Suddenly, Marc straightened—too fast, too sharp—and the voice that thundered from his mouth was not his own. It boomed, godlike and furious: “Spare me your self-righteous threats!”

The sound echoed off every pillar and painted shadows across the chamber walls. 

Mariam jerked, startled, her body stiffening beside him.

Khonshu’s voice, channeled through Marc, seethed forward, razor sharp. “I was banished for refusing to abandon humanity. Unlike the rest of you.”

Marc’s expression flickered—just for a heartbeat—as the bitter truth sank in: how little control he had over his own body in this divine tribunal.

Across the dais, Horus spoke next. His Avatar stood tall and rigid, eyes piercing like sharpened blades. “We have not abandoned humanity. They abandoned us.” 

Horus stepped forward slightly, chin lifted, eyes sharp and cold. “We trust our Avatars to carry out our will without drawing undue attention to ourselves,” he said, his voice steady but laced with cool accusation. “Not like some of us.”

Khonshu’s anger surged again through Marc’s body. His voice cracked like a whip. “Avatars are not enough!” he barked. “We need the might of gods!”

For the first time, Mariam felt something shift inside her—not a takeover, not a shove, but a gentle rising, as if Nephthys had only just straightened to her full height within her skin.

Mariam didn’t move. But when she opened her mouth, the voice that came was not her own. It was Nephthys—calm, measured, absolute. “Khonshu is right,” she said. Though soft, her words rang like bells in a tomb, clear and unavoidable. “It is time for you to return from the opulence of the Overvoid. Before you lose this realm to chaos.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered Avatars—soft, low, like wind stirring dry leaves across an ancient tomb. It passed between them like a current, unsettling and uneasy, as if the very air was charged with silent judgment.

Osiris turned slowly, the weight of centuries in his movement, eyes narrowing as they fixed on Mariam—the woman bearing the presence of Nephthys. The flicker of distaste crossed his ancient features like a shadow sliding over weathered stone, brief but unmistakable.

His gaze lingered, cold and appraising, sharp as the blade of a ceremonial dagger. There was something in her—something that unsettled him, disturbed the delicate balance of the divine assembly. A hesitation, a fracture, a trace of doubt.

“I have said it once,” Osiris intoned, voice heavy as stone and centuries of judgment, “and I will say it a million times: our Avatars are here only to observe.” He raised a hand, palm open like a dam holding back a flood. “We decided long ago not to meddle in the affairs of man.”

Then Tefnut stepped forward, graceful and detached, her Avatar’s eyes gleaming like molten gold.

Her voice was dry and cool—like the desert wind before a storm. “We will decide the best course of action.” Her gaze locked squarely on Marc—on Khonshu. “Speak your purpose.”

Khonshu stood tall within Marc’s frame, voice sharp and unyielding, cutting through the chamber like a finely honed blade. “I call for judgment against Arthur Harrow.”

A ripple of tension passed through the gathered Avatars—silent but electric—each breath caught, the air thickening with the weight of what was to come.

Isis tilted her head slightly, her Avatar’s expression unreadable—cool and collected. “The charges?” she asked.

Khonshu didn’t hesitate. “Conspiracy to release Ammit.”

A ripple moved through the chamber—sharper, colder this time.

Osiris’s lips thinned into a hard line. “That is a heavy accusation, Khonshu,” he said. “Let us summon the accused.”

The room fell into an oppressive stillness.

Then came the sound—an eerie whoosh, like rushing wind through a hollow tomb. It echoed off the ancient stone, reverberating through the chamber. From the shadows behind Marc and Mariam, the air shimmered. They turned just in time to see the portal open. Its edges glowed faintly with the same golden light that hummed through the pyramid’s walls—ancient magic, divine and impartial.

And then—Arthur Harrow stepped through. He looked pristine. Serene. As if he had just come from a peaceful stroll through a garden, not the brink of apocalypse. The soft shuffle of his sandals against the stone was the only sound in the chamber. He walked with hands clasped behind his back—calm. Composed. Almost… amused.

Mariam narrowed her eyes. He smiled at them like a man with nothing to hide.

Harrow stepped further into the chamber, eyes sweeping over the gathered gods and their vessels with casual, unsettling ease. “So,” he said lightly, voice honeyed with mockery, smooth as ever, “I see by the presence of Khonshu’s current makeshift Avatar, the purposes of our meeting must be nefarious.”

Mariam felt the heat rise in Marc beside her as Khonshu surged forward through him, voice booming like thunder. “You know exactly why we are here!”

Harrow, unfazed, came to a stop at the center of the dais. He folded his hands politely in front of him, tilting his head toward the Ennead with a mixture of reverence and ridicule.

“I must admit,” he said, gaze flicking to Marc, “I do not miss the sound of that voice… but speak, old master. To the point.”

His eyes glittered with calm calculation, as if the outcome was already written.

Khonshu’s voice thundered again, fierce and accusing. “Do you not seek to release Ammit from her tomb?”

Harrow clasped his hands behind his back, mock innocence in his smooth tone. “I was in the desert,” he said. “But if visiting the sands were a crime, the line of sinners would stretch longer than the Nile.”

He began to pace slowly, each step deliberate. “Khonshu has searched for Ammit’s tomb since the moment he ensnared me into his service. His vision is obscured by jealousy, by paranoia, and his—”

“He is a deceiver!” Khonshu roared, the force of his words making the stone beneath Marc’s feet tremble.

Harrow didn’t even flinch. “Do not trust the word of a shamed god,” he said coolly. “Khonshu is unhinged. And his servant—” he glanced pointedly at Marc, then Mariam, “—is unwell.”

Hathor’s Avatar leaned forward, “Unwell?” she asked, brows furrowed, voice neutral but curious. “How do you mean?”

Harrow’s gaze locked onto Marc.“This is a man,” he said slowly, emphasizing each word, “who literally does not know his own name.”

Marc flinched, and for a heartbeat, Khonshu fell silent inside him.

Mariam stiffened, but Nephthys surged gently forward through her—calm, firm. “Do not make this a personal matter, Arthur Harrow,” she said. “You have no right to question the integrity of a chosen Avatar.”

Harrow pressed on, voice colder now, dripping with mock pity. “I have no idea how many personalities he possesses…” His eyes flicked to Marc deliberately. “The man is clearly insane.”

Mariam’s glare could have cut glass. 

But Harrow wasn’t finished.

He turned toward her, a faint, cruel smile curling at the edges of his lips. “And you—willing to follow a fractured man into darkness—how tragic. Blind devotion makes fools of us all.” His gaze held hers, cold and unyielding, as if daring her to respond.

His gaze held hers, cold and unyielding, as if daring her to respond.

Marc saw red. Without thinking, he lunged forward, fist ready to strike. But before his blow could land, Osiris rose with commanding grace. The god raised one hand, and an invisible force slammed into Marc like a tidal weight, crushing the air from his lungs. His muscles trembled, pinned immobile by divine will.

“We will not tolerate violence in this chamber,” Osiris’s voice cracked like granite splitting, heavy and absolute.

The pressure lifted. Marc gasped sharply, then nodded once, panting, eyes blazing with fury—but he remained still.

Mariam didn’t look at him. Her gaze stayed locked on Harrow, her entire body trembling—not with fear, but with fierce restraint.

“It brings me no pleasure,” Harrow said, hands folded like a preacher at a funeral, voice smooth but cold, “to tell you this is a deeply troubled man. Khonshu is taking advantage of him—just as he once abused me. Just as he now seeks to abuse this court.”

A ripple of unease spread through the chamber.

Then Horus raised his hand, voice calm and resolute. “Let us speak to Marc Spector.”

The tether between god and man was severed.

Marc buckled, the sudden separation hitting him like a tidal wave. His knees struck stone with a harsh crack; palms slapped out to steady himself. His breath came in short, staggered gasps. His head hung low, as if gravity had suddenly tripled its pull.

Mariam gasped and stepped forward, but before she could reach him, Osiris’s voice cut through the chamber—cold, firm, and unyielding.

“Stay where you stand.”

She froze, the command settling over her like a stone wall. Her eyes flicked from Osiris to Marc, who struggled beneath the weight of the gods’ judgment.

“Are you unwell?” Horus asked from somewhere above, his voice calm but probing.

Marc’s eyes found Mariam’s, who stood a few feet away, tense and watching.

Then, in a broken whisper, he admitted, “I am.” He drew in a shallow breath, then another. “I am unwell. I need help.”

Mariam blinked hard, her throat tightening against the swell of emotion.

“But that doesn’t change the fact that this man is—” Marc’s voice cracked, faltering.

Hathor stepped forward, her tone gentle and kind. “This is a safe space, Marc. You may tell us if you feel exploited by Khonshu.”

Marc let out a sharp breath, almost a sob.“This is not about my feelings!” he shouted, voice breaking as he looked up at the gods with wide, wet eyes. “I’m not the one on trial here! He is!” He pointed unsteadily toward Harrow—his arm shaking visibly.

“Marc is telling the truth,” Mariam said firmly, her voice steady despite her pounding heart. “Harrow is dangerous. He seeks Ammit. Please... We have no reason to lie.”

“He has committed no offense,” Osiris spoke as he looked down at her with cold finality. “This matter is concluded.” 

And just like that, the chamber fell silent. The verdict was sealed.

Without hesitation, Mariam surged forward, every heartbeat thundering loud in her ears like a warning drum. The world around her seemed to narrow until it was just Marc—fragile, broken, and trembling—lying sprawled on the cold stone floor beneath her.

She dropped to her knees beside him, her fingers shaking as they reached out, hovering uncertainly for a moment before brushing gently against his skin.

“Marc,” she whispered urgently, voice tight with worry and desperation. Her hands moved with trembling care, pushing damp strands of hair away from his pale forehead, brushing against the sweat and dust clinging there.

“Are you alright?” Her words barely rose above a breath, fragile and filled with hope, searching his face for any sign of response.

Marc’s eyes fluttered open slowly, blurry and unfocused at first, as if the world were still swirling just beyond his grasp. Then, gradually, they sharpened, settling onto hers with a fragile clarity. His breath came shallow and ragged—a fragile thread barely holding him upright against the tide of exhaustion and pain.

Without warning, his body sagged toward her, the last reserves of strength and distance dissolving like mist. He leaned heavily against her, his head dropping to rest softly on her shoulder, as if seeking refuge from the crushing weight inside him—both physical and something deeper, unseen but no less real.

His fingers curled weakly around her arm, clutching desperately for something steady, something real to hold onto. “Don’t let go,” he murmured hoarsely, voice barely above a whisper, raw and pleading.

Mariam’s voice was steady, unwavering—a fierce tenderness threaded through every word. “Never, ya amar.” She tightened her hold, her breath warm and steady against his hair. “Never.”

Chapter Text

"MARIAM?" THE NAME ECHOED ACROSS the vast, vaulted chamber, sharp and sudden.

Mariam turned at once, startled—her breath catching in her chest. At the far end of the stone hall, framed in the golden light spilling through the exit, stood Yatzil. The goddess’s avatar had paused mid-step, her silhouette outlined in warmth and dust, one hand outstretched as if to beckon her forward.

Her voice, though low and urgent, barely carried across the floor of carved stone. “Come. There is another way.”

Mariam hesitated—only a heartbeat.

She looked down at Marc, still leaning against her, the weight of his body warm and solid, clinging with the last threads of exhaustion. His eyes found hers, dark and steady, and in them was no fear. Just trust. Just resolve.

He gave her nod. That was all she needed.

Together, they rose—slow and steady, Mariam never letting go of him, arm still braced around his back as if afraid he might crumble again. She kept close, shielding him instinctively as they followed Yatzil across the chamber.

The doorway she led them to was almost invisible—tucked into the shadows behind a massive stone pillar, its edges seamlessly carved to blend into the surrounding architecture. Only once they stepped through did Mariam realize just how cleverly it had been hidden.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the door swung closed behind them with a dull, hollow click , sealing the three of them inside.

The corridor beyond was narrow, intimate. The sandstone walls glowed softly under low amber sconces that lined the path—flickering flames casting liquid light that danced across their faces. The air smelled of ancient dust and lamp oil. Quiet surrounded them like a cloak, muffling the noise of the world behind.

Yatzil didn’t slow.

Her gait was purposeful now, urgency clear in every clipped step. Her tone had changed, too—stripped of the ceremonial cadence she had used in the chamber. Now she spoke plainly. Quickly. Human.

“You must listen to me carefully,” she said, glancing back only once.

Mariam nodded. “I’m listening.”

Yatzil inhaled deeply, then released the breath in a long, steady stream.

“Ammit was buried in secret,” she began. “Her resting place was hidden—not only from men, but even from the other gods. They feared what she would become if worship returned. Feared she would be used.”

Mariam’s brows knit. “But she had followers.”

“Zealots,” Yatzil agreed. “Many of them. Even after her imprisonment. But they were divided—paranoid. No one knew who could be trusted. The risk of betrayal was too great.”

Mariam narrowed her eyes slightly. “But someone knew? Someone had to record the location?”

Yatzil nodded once, her pace unwavering. “A medjay. His name was Senfu. Loyal beyond measure. The gods entrusted him with the task—he was chosen to carve the tomb’s coordinates in secret. Insurance, should the day ever come when mercy outweighed judgment.”

Realization hit like a stone dropping into Mariam’s stomach.

“Senfu’s sarcophagus,” she breathed. “That’s where the map is.”

“Yes,” Yatzil confirmed, her voice low but certain. “Find it, and you will find Ammit.”

Behind Mariam, Marc straightened slightly, his jaw tight as his brows drew together.“And where’s this sarcophagus now?”

Yatzil hesitated—just a moment—but then her expression hardened.“It was stolen. Sold off on the black market, traded among collectors and looters like a trinket. Its current location is unknown.”

Marc exhaled sharply through his nose. “So we’re chasing a ghost.”

“Not a ghost,” Yatzil said. “There are rumors. Quiet ones. A few names passed in shadows. I don’t know where it is now—but it’s out there.”

Mariam glanced between them, her mind already moving ahead, sharpening. “It’s something,” she said, more to herself than anyone. “A place to start. We’ll follow the trail.”

Yatzil’s expression softened for the first time. “I wish I could do more.”

“You already have,” Mariam replied, the words firm with quiet gratitude. “Thank you. For trusting me.”

Yatzil turned to face her fully now, and for a long moment, said nothing. Then, finally, she spoke—soft, but resonant with depth. “Anything for a sister.”

𓂀

The sun had dipped lower in the sky now, casting long, golden streaks of amber light across the sprawling skyline of Cairo. The city glowed beneath the dying sun, as if holding its breath in reverence. As Marc and Mariam stepped out from the monumental shadow of the Pyramid of Giza, that fading warmth painted their figures in silhouettes of flame and sand.

The sacred weight of the gods still lingered—clinging to Mariam’s skin like ancient dust. It pressed down on her shoulders, not with pain, but with presence. But the sharp, clean coolness of the evening wind whispered across her face and arms, cutting through the heaviness like a blade of air, and helped guide her slowly, steadily, back into her own body.

Mariam moved with the precision of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. Her strides were long, steady, unhurried. Purposeful. Her dark curls were pulled back into a tight braid that swung between her shoulder blades, the thick plait catching glints of sun with every step.

Marc stayed unnervingly close behind her, his gaze flicking over every passerby with that familiar sharpness she’d come to expect. He wasn’t just near her—he was practically shadowing her, closing off any space the crowd might fill. He insisted he wasn’t breathing down her neck, but the way he moved made it clear: this was hovering, pure and simple.

Mariam didn’t need to look to know he was there. She could feel him—tense, watchful, radiating heat and worry like a furnace in the fading light. His presence itched at the edges of her awareness, persistent as the static hum of a nearing storm.

“This is worse than the moped,” she mumbled to herself.

Marc let out a short huff behind her. “I heard that.”

Mariam didn’t slow her pace. “I was hoping you would.”

A long, deliberate slurp through a straw caught their attention. Then a slow, teasing drawl laced with smug amusement echoed loud enough to carry through the cooling evening air. “Well, look who’s back in town,” the voice said, dripping with mockery. “Doing goddess business in broad daylight.”

Mariam closed her eyes for a beat and exhaled slowly through her nose.

She turned.

Leaning with infuriating casualness against a graffiti-streaked wall just ahead was Layla—her sister—sunglasses perched on her nose and a half-smirk curling her lips. She looked completely at ease, sipping from a bag of juice with a bright red straw, like she had all the time in the world and not a single reason to care about discretion.

Marc caught sight of her a split second later. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Mariam didn’t even bother to hide her exasperation. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Layla didn’t flinch. She shrugged one shoulder, the movement breezy, unbothered. “Why? Because my name pisses off a few people in Cairo?” she said, raising a brow over the rim of her sunglasses. “Like yours doesn’t?” She turned to look at Mariam directly now, that same pointed, casual grin still playing on her mouth

Mariam stared at her for a long, steady moment. Her eyes narrowed slightly, not out of anger, but out of warning. “Layla,” she said carefully, voice low. “This is serious.”

Layla drew back slightly, hand pressed to her chest in mock offense. “I know,” she said, tone theatrical as she took another sip of her juice. “You’re chasing after ancient undead monsters. I’m not completely uninformed.”

Layla twirled the juice bag lazily between her fingers, the metallic pouch catching bits of sunlight as it spun. Her posture was relaxed, her expression unreadable—watching them both with a maddening, almost predatory calm.

“If you want me to leave,” she said lightly, head tilting just a fraction to the side, “Fine.”

Mariam’s brow rose instinctively, her eyes narrowing in quiet suspicion. She knew that tone too well.

“But…” Layla added, her mouth curving into a sly, self-satisfied smirk, “I know how to find what you’re looking for.”

Marc’s arms crossed in an instant. His body shifted just slightly in front of Mariam, a small but unconscious act of tension. “You’re bluffing,” he said flatly.

Layla turned her gaze to him like he was some slow-witted student interrupting her lecture. Her voice dripped with amused condescension. “Marc, please. This is me we’re talking about.” She let the words hang for effect before continuing. “You’re chasing a stolen sarcophagus that got trafficked through Cairo’s black market. And you think I don’t know where something like that would’ve ended up?”

Mariam exhaled slowly through her nose, arms still crossed, eyes locked on her sister with guarded precision. “You have a contact?” she asked, tone wary.

“I am the contact,” Layla replied sweetly, her grin flashing like a knife. “You forget how many relics I’ve had to track down after they went ‘missing.’ You forget how many smugglers owe me favors.”

Marc glanced over at Mariam, his expression tight with irritation but wordless. His jaw ticked, just once, a muscle working in his cheek. Whatever argument he wanted to make, he didn’t. He deferred, if only barely.

Layla caught the look, of course. She never missed anything. Her brows lifted in theatrical innocence as she raised both hands. “I’m not here to stir up drama,” she said, like it was a gift. “You need me. Just say it, and I’ll help.”

A long beat of silence followed.

The weight of the afternoon pressed around them again—the hum of the city, the heat of the stones, the faraway shout of a vendor bargaining over tomatoes. And Mariam stood there, eyes closed for a second, fighting the inevitable.

“Dammit,” she muttered.

Layla beamed. “That’s not exactly ‘please come help us, Layla,’ but I’ll take it.”

Marc groaned softly under his breath, half-turning away like he might physically distance himself from the decision.

“Alright,” Mariam said, her voice low with resignation. “You can come. But this isn’t a game, Layla. This is real. People have already died for less.”

Layla’s grin faltered just slightly. A flicker of something crossed her face—brief but genuine.

“I know,” she said quietly.

Then, with one final slurp, she crushed the empty juice pouch and tossed it neatly into a nearby trash bin. Her fingers slid up to adjust her sunglasses as she stepped forward—ready, as always, to insert herself into the fire without blinking.

Chapter Text

THE BOAT DRIFTED SMOOTHLY OVER dark, glassy water, its hull slicing a quiet, steady path beneath a sky so black it felt infinite—as though the night itself was a vast, unending ocean of ink. The air was cool and still, wrapping around them like a velvet cloak, soft and heavy with the scent of salt and distant blooms carried from the shore. Above, stars glittered faintly, distant and indifferent, like pinpricks of light watching silently from eternity.

From the far side of the deck came the soft strains of Arabic music, delicate notes threading through the night like a whispered lullaby. Layla and a few others lingered there, their silhouettes flickering in the lantern light, shadows dancing on weathered wood as they swayed gently to the rhythm. Their voices rose and fell in easy, intimate conversation—an unseen thread of warmth and life contrasting the quiet tension across the boat’s center.

Marc and Mariam sat apart, a low wooden table between them holding nothing but the faint reflection of lantern light and the weight of unspoken things. The space between them felt both vast and suffocating, like a silent gulf neither knew how to cross. Though their bodies were close, the emotional distance stretched wide, heavy as the stillness around them.

Marc’s gaze flicked toward her, eyes soft but searching. “How are you doing?” His voice was quiet, careful—less about the surface and more about the undercurrents beneath.

Mariam’s lips pressed into a thin line for a moment, then she met his eyes steadily. She knew exactly what he meant—the moments earlier, when the other side of him had surfaced like a shadow she couldn’t quite grasp. The shock, the fear that had tightened her chest.

“I’m fine,” she said firmly, though the faint tremor in her voice betrayed her. “Just... took me by surprise, that’s all.”

He nodded slowly, understanding. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She gave a small, wry smile. “It’s not your fault. I know that it’s... complicated.”

Marc’s eyes didn’t waver from Mariam’s face. There was something searching there—a vulnerability that had been buried beneath years of guarded walls and half-truths. He seemed to gather the words carefully inside, as if weighing them against a fragile hope. Finally, breaking the silence, his voice came low, tentative—fragile, as if afraid to shatter the moment.

“I wish you would’ve told me sooner,” Marc said at last, voice low. “I wish you’d told me you were overwhelmed.”

Mariam met his eyes—steadily, openly. There was no malice there, but something far more cutting: honesty without apology. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know how,” she said. “Because by the time I realized how far gone I was, we’d already stopped talking about anything that mattered.”

His face flinched, just barely—an ache at the corner of his brow, something like guilt tightening behind his eyes.

“I wish you’d told me you were human,” she went on. “Not a martyr. Not a soldier. Not a goddamn monument to silence and suffering. Just… a man who needed help.”

Marc’s breath hitched. He looked away. The river murmured around them, soft and relentless, like time itself refusing to pause.

Their eyes locked in a gaze thick with unspoken understanding, an invisible thread stretching between them—thin, fragile, but still holding. Around them, the world receded: the soft lap of the river against the hull, the muted strains of distant music, the flicker of lanterns casting molten gold across the water. All of it faded, melted into the hush, until it was only the two of them, suspended in a fragile, trembling pause.

Then—sharp as glass—the silence broke. A cry split the night air.

Not a scream—an ululation. Rising, falling. Wild and haunting. It cut clean through the darkness like a blade honed on memory. Both turned toward the sound as if tugged by something older than thought. Across the boat, a woman’s voice rose in a curling chant—quick, high bursts of grief and praise, of mourning and defiance all braided into one. It was a sound steeped in centuries, a cry that belonged to no single person and yet echoed in the bones of anyone who had ever loved and lost.

Marc’s gaze softened.

Something in his expression pulled tight, flickered. His throat moved with the weight of something unsaid—old pain stirred like dust in a long-forgotten room. He didn’t speak at first. Just watched the water, the shadows, the stars.

Then, quietly—barely louder than the whispering river—he said, “I haven’t heard that since…” He trailed off. Hesitated. His eyes flicked back to Mariam, searching her face as though looking for permission. A moment of grace. An opening. “Since our wedding,” he finished, voice barely above the wind.

Mariam’s lips lifted, slowly. A faint, wistful smile—small and breakable, like a flame flickering in the draft of an open window. A memory kindled, not fully rekindled. Something just as close to ache as it was to warmth.

“You looked so beautiful that night,” Marc murmured, eyes never leaving hers. His voice was low, reverent—each word placed with care, like stepping stones across sacred ground. “God, you looked… sacred.”

Mariam exhaled, light and uneven, a breath that carried both affection and a quiet ache. Her smile curved, but wryly. “And you looked scared.”

Marc let out a laugh—short, real. It caught him off guard. The sound broke loose from somewhere buried, and for a fleeting second, he wasn’t the ghost she’d been chasing across time zones and afterlives. He was just Marc. Her Marc.

“I was,” he admitted, smile fading into something softer. “Terrified.”

The silence after was gentler than before. Not strained, not sharp. Just… quiet.

Mariam leaned forward slightly, her voice lower now, her words unguarded and aching.

“I used to think we knew each other inside and out. That there were no secrets left between us. No masks. But now…” Her eyes searched his. “Now it feels like you don’t want me to see the real you anymore. Like all the mess is kept locked away where I can’t reach it.”

Marc didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He just sat there, still and listening, her words settling on his shoulders like snowfall—silent, but heavy.

He breathed in, slow. Then, finally: “That’s never been my strength.” His voice was ragged, quiet. “Talking. Letting you see the mess in my head.”

Mariam’s expression softened—subtle, instinctive.

She leaned in just enough. Not fully. Just a small shift in gravity. A reaching.

“It doesn’t scare me,” she said. Simple. Steady.

Their hands moved almost on their own—fingers brushing first, then curling together slowly. Hesitant. Deliberate. As if reminding each other: I’m still here. Their palms pressed close, fingers weaving back into something familiar. Marc’s thumb began to move in slow, anchoring circles over the wedding band on her finger—so light, so reverent it felt like a vow in motion.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

They just sat there—tethered in silence, suspended in that breathless hush that lives between apology and forgiveness. Around them, lanterns bobbed, casting long golden reflections across the dark skin of the water. Music drifted from farther up the shore, a faint memory of celebration, blurred and softened by distance. The boat rocked gently, the motion soothing and slow.

Time bent. Paused.

Marc’s hand tightened slightly, grounding them both. His touch was warm, solid—real in a way that words weren’t. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he leaned forward, closing the distance between them one inch at a time.

His gaze never left hers. It was steady now. Tender. And vulnerable in a way that stole the breath from her lungs.

He pulled her gently toward him. Mariam followed. Rose with him.

She moved carefully, almost cautiously—like someone stepping into a memory not quite trusted. Marc steadied her with a hand at her waist, his fingers splaying against the curve of her blouse, holding her without pressure, only presence.

She settled beside him on the wider bench, their knees brushing. Their shoulders touched—barely, softly. A small line of contact, delicate but grounding. The scent of river lilies drifted faintly on the air, mingling with the fabric of his jacket, the warmth of skin beneath.

Marc’s hand remained in hers. Still linked. Still present.

“You’ve heard the name Mogart before?” he asked finally, voice low, careful. The words came like stepping back from the edge of something tender—still close, but cautious.

Mariam didn’t look away. Her gaze stayed fixed on his, steady and unreadable beneath the lantern light.

“In passing,” she said. Her voice barely disturbed the air. “Cairo circles. Black market stuff. Dangerous whispers more than facts. I’ve never met him.”

The river murmured beneath them, its rhythm older than any of their griefs. Light shifted across the boat, refracting through the water, turning the worn wood golden in patches. The world around them remained distant—held back by the stillness they’d carved out for themselves.

They sat close. Not healed. But closer. Their hands remained linked. Their silence was no longer sharp, only tired.

And then—

Footsteps. Measured. Soft. But certain.

Layla.

She didn’t announce herself. She didn’t need to.

She stepped into view like someone used to reading tension in the air—used to stepping between fractures before they widened. Her boots thudded lightly against the wood, her presence quiet but unmistakable. She sank into the seat across from them without a word, her eyes scanning the scene like a field medic counting the wounded before speaking.

She didn’t smile.

She didn’t scowl.

She simply watched.

And waited.

Mariam was the first to speak. She lifted her head slowly, gaze meeting Layla’s with an even calmness that didn’t quite mask the caution beneath.

“What’s the plan?”

Layla’s mouth curved—not into a smile, but something thinner, sharper. “Oh,” she said lightly, her tone brittle at the edges, “it’s not pleasant being left in the dark, is it?”

Mariam drew in a breath—a long, slow inhale that caught faintly in her chest. The silence that followed stretched, tight as wire, humming with unspoken things. When she finally spoke, her voice came soft, fragile at the edges, nearly swallowed by the hush of the river all around them.

“Layla… I really am sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I didn’t mean to—”

But Layla turned sharply. The movement was abrupt, final. Her hand lifted to cut her off mid-sentence, her laugh short and dry and empty of amusement.

“You did already say that,” she said—firm, not cruel. Her voice held something heavier than anger. Fatigue. The kind that settles deep into your bones after too many fights with people you love. “And I heard you. I did. But this isn't about you right now.”

Then she turned to Marc, eyes sharp, arms folded tight across her chest. Her voice landed like a stone.

“Well? You gonna say anything? Or are you just gonna sit there and let her keep taking the heat for something you did?”

Marc’s jaw flexed, shoulders twitching slightly. “I didn’t make her come with me, Layla.”

“You didn’t have to,” she shot back, voice rising. “She does everything you ask. You’re literally her only weakness.”

Mariam’s head jerked toward her, offended, indignant. “Hey—”

Marc’s mouth tightened. His voice snapped. “That’s not fair.”

Layla’s eyes flashed. “No?”

Her tone sharpened like glass, every word barbed. “Then maybe make it fair. Own up for once.”

Marc glanced at Mariam. Just a glance. But it lingered—held, pulled—and Mariam could feel the weight behind it. A silent plea in the storm. Back me up. Stand with me.

She didn’t answer. Not right away.

Her eyes flicked between him and Layla, caught in a current she didn’t want to swim. Her throat worked as she swallowed, and her breath caught again, too tight.

“Are you gonna say anything here?” Marc asked, quieter now, voice threadbare and faintly strained.

Mariam opened her mouth. Hesitated. No words came.

The silence went hard. Bitter. Then Layla broke it.

“Of course Mariam’s backing you,” she snapped, voice low and bitter, like wine gone sour. “That’s what wives do, right?”

“Back off,” Marc said quickly, before Mariam could even speak. His voice was clipped, protective. “I’m not gonna let you throw her under the bus.”

Layla arched a brow, mouth twitching in a mock grin. “Since when did you get the crown to protect her? I’ve known Mariam way longer than you. I’m her sister.”

Marc’s voice dropped an octave, roughening. “She’s my wife. It’s my job to protect her. That’s the whole point of marriage.”

Mariam’s brow furrowed. She straightened a little, fingers twitching. “That’s not exactly—”

Layla rolled her eyes. “Oh, here we go. The knight in shining armor routine.”

Mariam tipped her head back and exhaled slowly, eyes fluttering shut. Her breath was a thread—thin, stretched to breaking.

Marc’s finger jabbed through the air, frustration rising. “You always act like you know best, don’t you?”

Layla barked a humorless laugh. “And you always think you’re right. Typical.”

The tension climbed again—too loud, too hot, filling the space like smoke.

Mariam’s mind drifted, recoiling from the noise. Her thoughts reeled backward, unmoored, to a not-so-distant memory: the night in the flat. Her and Layla, arguing. Shouting. And poor Steven—stuck in the middle, tugged in both directions like a rope in a storm.

Now she understood.

This—this—was how it felt. Trapped between people you cared about, each of them louder than the other, both convinced they were right. And all she wanted was silence.

But silence didn’t come.

Layla pointed an accusatory finger. “You always think hiding things is the same as protecting people.”

Marc shot back, voice raw. “And you always think dragging it into the open fixes anything.”

“Better than pretending it’s not there!”

“I’m not pretending—I’m trying to deal with it!”

“Oh yeah? Looks like you’re doing a great job. Disappearing for months, yanking my sister halfway across the world—”

“I didn’t yank her—she chose to come!”

Mariam didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, nails digging into the sleeves of her jacket. Her jaw locked, her cheek twitching faintly.

Layla scoffed, spitting the words like they tasted bad. “Oh, please. You think she wouldn’t follow you off a cliff if you asked? She’s been doing that since the day you met.”

Marc drew breath, ready to reply—but he didn’t. He stopped. Because Mariam had gone still. So still.

Shoulders squared. Eyes fixed ahead. A tightness in her posture that said: Do not push me. She took a breath—short, sharp, barely more than a gasp—and her hands clenched where they gripped her sleeves. And then she snapped.

“Oh my god, will you two just shut up?!”

The words detonated—loud and violent, slicing the air clean in half. Both Marc and Layla jolted, stunned into silence. Even the river seemed to pause, water gently slapping the boat like a held breath.

Mariam was on her feet now, arms thrown wide, her entire body trembling with fury held too long. Her voice cracked at the edges, brittle with exhaustion.

“Seriously? Is now really the time for a pissing contest?”

She looked between them, eyes wild, incredulous.

“We’re on a party boat in the middle of Egypt with actual death cults on our tail, and you two want to reenact every argument from Thanksgiving dinner?”

Marc opened his mouth. “Mariam—”

“No. Don’t ‘Mariam’ me.” Her finger jabbed the air. “You disappeared. I disappeared,. It’s all fucked. Own up to it already.”

She turned on Layla next, voice seething but controlled.

“And you—you don’t get to sit there and treat me like some wind-up doll Marc dragged across the continents. You think I just do what I’m told?” She scoffed. “Newsflash: I make my own damn decisions. I don’t need his or your permission.”

Layla blinked, clearly stung. But Mariam wasn’t finished. Her voice dropped, quieter now. But every word still cut.

“You’re mad. I get it. But this whole sibling tug-of-war over who knows me best, who’s more betrayed? It’s not helping. It’s exhausting. And if we don’t stop, it’s going to get us killed.”

She gestured around them with both arms. “So unless either of you has a better plan than ‘bicker until Harrow releases Ammit,’ maybe shut up and save the drama for later. Yeah?”

Silence. Marc looked down. Layla didn’t speak.

Mariam sat again, heavily, dragging a hand through her hair. “God. I need a drink. Or a nap. Or a mutiny.”

Neither of them answered.

She sighed. “Right. So. Mogart. Senfu. Can we please, please focus now?”

A beat.

Then Layla muttered, “Fine.”

Marc echoed, slower: “Yeah.”

Mariam leaned back, arms crossed, exhaustion written across every inch of her. “Great. Let’s get our stories straight…”

Chapter Text

THE BOAT PULLED UP TO THE DOCK with a long, low groan, wood creaking, ropes tightening as they caught. The hull bumped gently against the weathered edge of the pier, rocking once before settling into stillness. Overhead, lanterns swayed in slow arcs, their golden light flickering softly in the warm evening breeze. The glow danced across the rippling surface of the Nile, fracturing into molten gold that pooled over the dock’s stones and the curved edges of the boat’s deck.

Ahead, Mogart’s island estate emerged from the twilight like a dream half-remembered—lush, decadent, and almost unreal. Gardens spilled outward in every direction, hedges thick and wild against the manicured palms, leaves catching stray points of light from suspended strings of bulbs, casting fleeting shadows in the gentle night air.

The murmur of music wove beneath the chatter and movement—low and steady, pulsing like a heartbeat beneath layers of conversation. Silhouettes moved like living shadows through open spaces—dancers spinning slowly in the soft dark, framed by bursts of laughter and the clink of glass. Foreign tongues rolled through the air, curling and dissolving like smoke, intangible and weightless.

Marc stepped off the boat first. His boots touched the stone with a soft thud—steady, grounded. His posture relaxed but alert, he glanced back and extended a hand without hesitation.

Mariam took it with a quiet smile. Her fingers slipped into his—steady, sure—and she let him guide her down. The moment her feet touched the dock, she paused, breath caught in subtle awe, brow arching as she took in the surreal, glowing expanse before them.

Layla followed shortly after, her heels clicking softly against the wood, then stone. She adjusted her earrings with practiced ease, fingers like armor plating. Purpose sharpened her posture, her eyes flickering in swift, watchful glances, face set and focused.

“Remember,” Layla said, pausing at the dock’s edge to look back at them. “Your names are Rufino and Luisa Estrada.”

Mariam’s lips twitched into a faint smirk, earrings catching lantern light. “Got it, Ms. Layla the black market archivist.”

Layla offered a tight half-laugh and turned again, but Marc barely heard. His gaze was fixed on Mariam.

The night seemed made for her—shadows pooling in warm lamplight across the elegant simplicity of her outfit: wide-legged black trousers, sleeveless ivory blouse, and a gold collar necklace that caught the light like a relic. Her hair was pinned back loosely, stray strands framing the soft curve of her neck—so beautiful it almost hurt to look.

Marc exhaled slowly, sliding an arm around her waist. “Right,” he murmured, voice low and reverent, “Just back from our honeymoon in the Maldives.”

Mariam turned slightly, caught off-guard by the warmth in his tone. His eyes softened, heavy-lidded and hungry, like he was committing every detail to memory all over again.

Layla caught the look—and froze.

“Are you serious?” she groaned, spinning back to glare. “We’re here to stop a maniac from unleashing the god of death, and you’re undressing my sister with your eyes?”

Marc didn’t flinch. “Can you blame me?” he said, still watching Mariam.

The music dimmed as they moved away from the crowd, drawn toward the rhythmic clatter of hooves. Ahead, a garden opened into a circular arena bathed in torchlight, flanked by cushioned bleachers. Two men on horseback jousted slowly—wooden lances clashing, sparks flying as they circled in a dance of tradition and spectacle.

Layla led with practiced ease, stepping toward the arena’s edge, commanding attention without seeking it. The match ended—one rider dismounted while the other rode off, a guard approaching with a red ceremonial robe. The victor shrugged it on with dramatic flair before turning toward them.

Tall, fit, and clearly used to authority, he greeted Layla smoothly. “Layla. Come in.”

She offered a polished smile and her hand. “Mogart. Thank you for having us.”

Marc stayed quiet, but Mariam stiffened beside him. Her shoulders tensed, gaze narrowing—silent but clear. She didn’t like this man.

Marc glanced sideways, amused. “Easy,” he whispered. “She’s not twelve anymore.”

“She’s still my little sister,” Mariam replied coolly. “I can still hate it.”

Mogart’s gaze shifted to Mariam. “And who,” he asked, voice smooth, “is this beautiful treasure you’ve brought?”

Before Marc could answer, Layla interjected lightly, “These are my clients. Rufino and Luisa Estrada. Collectors interested in Egyptian funerary texts.”

Mogart’s eyes gleamed. “A pleasure,” he said, attention lingering on Mariam a moment too long before extending a hand with theatrical flourish. “Please, follow me.”

He led them past the arena into a garden path softly lit by lanterns. The stone was cool underfoot, bordered by pools of still water. Ahead, a glass pyramid gleamed against the night like a beacon.

As they walked, Mogart spoke with curator’s pride. “This is more than a collection. Preserving history is a responsibility I take very seriously.”

Layla gave a dry smile. “A responsibility you alone have enjoyed, yes?”

Mogart chuckled, unfazed. “Philanthropy, really. Now—why such interest in Senfu?”

Layla began, but Mogart cut her off, raising a hand. “I’d like to hear from your clients.”

Marc blinked, caught off guard. “I just... want to take a look,” he said, trying for casual but landing closer to awkward.

Silence hung. Mogart arched an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Mariam laughed softly, sliding her hand over Marc’s arm. “My husband’s the joker. Sometimes with terrible timing.”

Marc glanced at her, grateful and sheepish.

“In truth,” Mariam said smoothly, “I’m the interested one. Rufino’s the financial backer. Happy wife, happy life.”

Mogart smiled. “A wise man.”

He stepped aside, motioning toward a massive glass case ahead. Inside lay the ornately wrapped body of a long-dead priest.

“Well,” Mogart said, voice low with showman’s pride, “be my guest.”

𓂀

The sarcophagus sat before them like a silent sentinel, ancient and immovable beneath the angular gleam of Mogart’s glass pyramid. Its surface shimmered with cold authority, flickering lights catching every etched symbol like sparks scattered across a midnight sky. The air around it felt heavier here—dense with centuries of mystery and reverence, as if even time itself held its breath.

It was beautiful. Imposing. Sacred.

Mariam hovered close, fingers just brushing the surface before tracing the lines of text near the crown with deliberate reverence. Her brows knit in concentration, lips parting softly as she murmured quiet translations only she could hear. The smooth stone was cool beneath her fingertips, each hieroglyph carved with meticulous precision. This wasn’t a forgery.

Layla crouched beside her, eyes scanning the glyphs with practiced ease. “It matches the Studenwachen texts,” she murmured, voice low, almost speaking to the stone itself.

Mariam glanced at her sister, surprised, then back to the inscription. “Yeah. Same cadence. Same Ka glyph placement.” Excitement flickered in her hushed voice—a thrill born only of real discovery.

Behind them, Marc lingered in shadow, arms folded tightly. His brow furrowed as he watched the women puzzle over the ancient script. “Okay,” he said, voice edged but trying for calm, “and what does that mean exactly?”

Without missing a beat, they answered in perfect unison, eyes never leaving the sarcophagus: “It’s legit.”

Marc blinked, unimpressed. He made a face and turned away, gaze drifting to the polished surface—his own dim reflection staring back. But there was more than just him.

Behind his glassy image, Steven’s eyes blinked rapidly, mouth moving in urgent silence, trying to speak through the veil.

Marc tensed. His stance shifted, subtle but telling.

Mariam, still focused on the inscription, muttered under her breath, frustration creeping in. “It’s just a lesson on guiding the dead. No tomb. No coordinates. Nothing.”

Layla groaned, leaning back on her heels. “You’ve got to be kidding me. No location?”

Mariam sighed. “Not yet. Not that I can find.”

Then Marc’s silence pulled at her attention. She turned, catching the tight line of his jaw, the stiff shoulders. His gaze was locked on the glass, fixed, strained.

“Marc?” Her voice softened.

No reply.

She stepped closer, following his line of sight—and there it was: the shimmer of movement in the reflection. The familiar, blinking stare. A man desperate to be heard, trapped behind glass.

Her heart tightened. The look in Marc’s eyes—distant, flickering between resistance and surrender—was painfully familiar. She’d seen it before, late nights in London, when Steven helped her decode funerary rites from behind the safety of museum cases.

Something softened inside her.

“Marc,” she whispered gently, “I know you don’t like this—”

“No.” Sharp. Reflexive.

“I’m just asking—”

“No.” Softer now, lacking bite. He was trying to close the door before it cracked open more.

“Please.” Her hand brushed his forearm, warm and grounding. “You don’t have to let him front. But I need him for this. He’s trying to say something, isn’t he?”

Silence. His jaw clenched.

She stepped closer, voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me what he’s saying.”

He looked down at her. For a long moment, the air between them weighed heavy, threatening to crush everything. But she held him with steady eyes and unwavering voice—someone who had chosen to stay when it mattered most.

Marc grimaced, running a hand down his face. “You don’t understand—”

“I do.” Firm, kind. “I’ve been in this with both of you. Look at me.”

He did.

And there they were again—those eyes. Wide, dark, impossibly tired. Still full of quiet forgiveness. Still holding broken trust that somehow hadn’t shattered completely. Now pleading too.

His shoulders sagged under the weight.

A quiet sigh. Worn down.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

Mariam smiled, faint but warm.

Marc ran his hands through his hair in frustration, like a man finally surrendering to the current he couldn’t fight.

“Alright,” he said, voice rough, resigned. “Fine.”

He turned to Layla. “Keep them occupied for a few minutes?”

Layla arched a brow but didn’t press. She glanced between them—catching the tension, the fragile stillness.

“Sure,” she said, already stepping toward the courtyard. Her footsteps softened and faded.

Left alone, Mariam stepped closer. The air shifted—quieter, charged with something more intimate. The sarcophagus’s reflected shimmer flickered across Marc’s face, taut with unspoken weight.

He stared up at his reflection, jaw set, breath short and controlled—as if keeping everything bottled inside was a constant battle.

“All right, Steven,” he muttered, voice gravelly. “You wanna talk? Talk to me. What now?”

His words hung in the hollow quiet—swallowed by stone and silence.

Mariam watched from just behind, arms crossed—not defensive, but steadying herself. Her eyes tracked the tension in his spine, the rigid jaw, the way his fingers flexed like a caged thing.

He stared back at the reflection, frustration drawn deep.

Then his eyes met Steven’s mirrored gaze. For a flicker, uncertainty broke through—something unspoken.

A sharp exhale. Half-growl.

“Damn it,” he snapped, more to himself. “There isn’t time for this.”

The frustration was in every taut muscle, coiled and restless like a current searching for grounding.

Mariam’s voice was gentle, steady. “What is he saying?”

Marc glanced at her, shadowed eyes, then shrugged—too casual to be real.

“He wants me to piss off.”

A half-lie. She saw it in the set of his mouth, the flicker of avoidance. There was more—but he wouldn’t say. Maybe didn’t know how.

Mariam’s gaze shifted from Marc’s face to the glass surface behind him—where his reflection stared back, unblinking and still, just an ordinary mirror image to her eyes. But she knew better. That reflection wasn’t just glass and light. It was Steven, waiting, desperate to be heard.

She looked back at Marc, searching his eyes for any sign of acknowledgment, hesitation melting into something softer. “Can he hear me?” she asked quietly.

Marc nodded slowly, his jaw tightening. “Yeah. He can.”

Mariam swallowed, the strangeness of the moment settling around her like a cloak. “This is weird,” she mumbled under her breath, half to herself, half to the air.

Then, steadying herself, she reached up and gently cradled Marc’s face in her hands. Her thumbs traced slow circles along his cheekbones as she held his gaze.

“Okay, Steven,” she said softly, her voice steady and calm, “I know you’re upset. But if we don’t figure this out… Harrow wins.”

Her hands didn’t grip or cling. Just held steady—an anchor when everything else might break.“We all lose. You lose. Everything you’ve fought for—everything that matters—it could slip away.” Her voice softened even more, almost a whisper now, fragile with hope. “Please, Steven… do this for me.”

And then, slowly, something inside him seemed to loosen. The tension around his eyes softened, and a faint, almost shy smile touched his lips. For a moment, he looked less worn—lighter, like a weight had lifted just a little. The hard edges of pain faded, even if only for a breath.

He blinked at the glass, a short, quiet laugh escaping him—amused by some private joke. 

Then, almost reverently, he whispered, “Okay.”

Not to Mariam.

“Okay,” he said again, this time nodding as if answering unseen counsel. “What do I do?”

Chapter Text

MARC TURNED TOWARD THE SARCOPHAGUS, the ancient stone catching flickers of torchlight. His movements were deliberate, slower than usual, as if every motion weighed heavier here. He reached inside carefully, hands hovering first—hesitating, listening—before brushing over brittle linen wrappings, long dead but preserved. He sifted through the layers until he found what Steven must have seen—strips of fragile fabric, worn but intact.

He drew one out, fingers gentle as he unfolded it, careful not to tear. Then another. He laid them out, folding the strips with practiced motions—not quite his own.

“Like this?” he asked quietly.

“Hey!” a harsh male voice cut through, sudden and angry. “What are you doing?!” Mogart’s main guard barked, grabbing Marc by the shoulder.

In one fluid, violent motion, Marc sidestepped, seized the man’s wrist mid-air, and twisted it hard. The weapon clattered to the floor. Without hesitation, Marc pressed the barrel of the gun against the guard’s chest—a silent promise of swift violence if he moved again.

But then Marc’s gaze snapped up, and his stomach dropped.

Across the room, another guard held Mariam by the arm. His grip was tight, a pistol pressed hard against her temple. Her body was rigid—every muscle taut. Her eyes met Marc’s across the space—not wide with fear, but bright with fierce calculation.

She wasn’t panicking. But she wasn’t safe.

Layla stood close, hands raised slightly, palms open in a half-hearted peace gesture. Two more guards flanked her, weapons leveled, faces taut. One wrong move, and everything would ignite.

Marc exhaled slowly through his nose, measured and calm, before handing the gun back to the guard. His movements were precise—controlled—as if every gesture was a careful act of restraint. His hands lifted in surrender, but his frame remained coiled, like a predator held at bay. Not submission. Not surrender. Waiting.

The silence stretched—sharp and suffocating.

Then footsteps echoed from the far end, crisp and deliberate, like the steady beat of a war drum closing in.

Mogart appeared with the grandeur of a man who believed the world was his stage. His crimson robe billowed behind him, catching the light like flames licking silk. Jewels sparkled on his fingers. His face was a sneer carved from stone—cold, amused, superior. He reveled in the moment.

“Do you really think I’m an idiot?” he asked, voice slicing through the silence like a blade, venom and pride dripping from every word.

Marc said nothing. No flinch, no blink. His gaze locked on Mogart like a leveled blade—steady and unyielding. There was no fear—only cold calculation and grit.

“Get on your knees,” Mogart ordered.

“Anton, stop!” Layla’s voice cut through sharply, urgent and angry. “Don’t do this.”

Mogart’s lip curled. “I said, get on your knees!”

Marc’s jaw twitched. He glanced at Mariam—a fleeting look filled with warning, apology, and unspoken things. Then, barely perceptible, he nodded and slowly sank to the floor. His hands stayed raised, fingers splayed. His chest rose in shallow, simmering breaths. The tension hadn’t eased—it had tightened, compressed like a storm in a man-shaped cage.

He knelt.

Mogart’s gaze slid to Mariam, slow and deliberate, like a blade tracing flesh. Then a smile—slick, oily, smug—that made her skin crawl.

“I’d tell you to do the same,” he said low, almost intimate, “but I’d want it for a different reason.”

Marc’s body froze. Every muscle went rigid in an instant, sharp and violent. His shoulders squared, fingers curling inward like claws aching to strike. The tendons in his neck tightened; his jaw clenched so hard his teeth clicked. He breathed through gritted teeth, loud in the stillness. His nostrils flared.

Mariam saw it—the fury crackling beneath his skin, barely contained.

A vein pulsed at his temple. His gaze darkened, murderous.

“You wanna say that again?” Marc growled, hoarse and low, steel beneath the words. Something ancient. Something no one dared provoke twice.

The nearest guard reacted immediately, pressing his rifle barrel harder against Marc’s skull. A sharp click sounded as a finger slid over the trigger.

“Marc,” Mariam breathed, voice tight with panic. She stepped forward, torn between defiance and self-preservation. Her heart thundered.

“Don’t,” she whispered—but it wasn’t clear who she meant.

Mogart didn’t blink. He only smirked, pleased by the tension, by the barely contained violence hanging thick in the air. He tilted his head, feigning mild curiosity.

“Touchy,” he mused, then turned his back on Marc like he wasn’t worth a second thought.

He moved to face Layla instead, hands clasped behind his back as if this were a genteel meeting, not a hostage standoff.

“Layla,” he said, drawing out her name like a lover savoring it. His voice was syrupy, cloying, dripping with false regret. “I was so ready to make peace with you.”

“You don’t understand,” Layla shot back, voice steady but eyes burning. “We’re not here to steal. Not here to hurt. We’re here to save lives. Many lives.”

A guard hurried in, boots striking marble with urgency. He whispered something in clipped French to Mogart.

Mogart’s brow lifted, eyes gleaming with new interest. A slow, self-satisfied smirk spread across his face—like a man who’d just drawn a winning card.

“Well,” he murmured, adjusting his cuffs with a flourish, “that’s interesting.”

He stepped forward, voice smooth, gesturing for the guards to follow. “It seems we have a concerned third party.”

The rifles jabbed forward, forcing Marc, Mariam, and Layla to move. Mariam tensed as cold metal pressed between her shoulder blades. Marc’s fists clenched, but he forced himself to relax. No words were exchanged. None were needed.

They were ushered through the archway into the courtyard. Torchlight flickered in restless waves, wind stirring the flames.

There, just beyond the pool of light, stood Harrow.

Calm. Serene. Waiting.

He looked like a man strolling through a garden, staff balanced lightly in one hand. The long curve caught the torchlight, gleaming like bone. Two silent followers stood behind him, faces passive, almost reverent.

A slow smile tugged at his lips.

“Whatever they’ve told you,” he said smoothly, practiced liar’s confidence dripping from every word, “I’m sure I can offer you something far more tangible.”

Then, casually, he lifted his free hand.

Above his palm, the golden scarab rose, weightless and glowing. It spun slowly, casting ripples of warm light across his face and robe—an impossible beacon of power, defying gravity and reason.

“Why settle for a clue,” he continued, voice low, magnetic, “when you could have the treasure itself?”

For a heartbeat, no one moved. The scarab glowed like a miniature sun.

Layla’s eyes widened. “Anton. Anton, don’t listen to this man,” she said quickly, voice breaking through the hush. “He’s trying to stop us from reaching—”

“Please,” Mogart cut in, slicing the air with a hand. “Stop.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Layla pleaded, stepping forward. “He’s going to kill millions. Trust me!”

“Are you seriously talking to me about trust?” Mogart snapped, voice rising like a whip crack. He spun sharply toward her, robes flaring.

Layla’s jaw tightened, but before she could answer, another voice cut through the tension.

“Please,” Harrow said softly, unsettlingly calm. “There’s no need for violent accusations.”

He stepped forward. His eyes swept slowly over them—Layla, Mariam, Marc—measuring, sizing.

“Each of you,” he said kindly, “has far more in common than you realize.”

Turning to Layla first: “You’ve spent years convincing yourself that distance will keep the wounds from your father’s death closed. But grief doesn’t respect borders. It follows. It festers.”

Layla’s breath hitched. Her fists clenched, and she took a step back. For a fleeting moment, her facade cracked.

Then Harrow’s gaze shifted.

“And you,” he said, turning to Mariam, smiling faintly, almost fondly, “carry a similar thought. If you push people away, they’ll be safer. If you hide your worst parts, they won’t bleed into the lives of those you love.”

Mariam said nothing. She held herself still, chest tight, pulse pounding. Nephthys stirred behind her eyes—a flicker of ancient awareness coiling low in her spine.

“But you know better,” Harrow continued, voice dark, sharp as a knife gliding through soft fruit. “Something still stands in your way.”

He tilted his head.

“Your husband doesn’t tell you the truth.”

The words cracked through the night like breaking marble.

Layla and Mariam turned—one confused, the other dread-filled.

Marc’s face froze, but behind his eyes flickered panic, anger, guilt.

“No,” he whispered, voice rough. “It’s not like that.”

But Harrow wasn’t done.

“And you, Marc,” he said, stepping toward him, eyes sharp as glass, “don’t tell her because you know what she’ll see.”

He leaned closer, voice cold.

“She’ll see you exactly as you see yourself.”

He paused.

Then, with a soft, cruel smile:

“As unworthy of love.”

The blow landed like a scalpel twisting deep.

Marc flinched, mouth opening then closing. His chest rose fast and hard. His fists clenched tight as the words echoed.

“You piece of shit,” he snarled, voice cracking like dry wood.

The guards tensed immediately; one raised his rifle.

But Harrow smiled, untouched.

He turned from Marc like he was nothing.

Facing Mogart again, he said smoothly, lifting his cane. The violet crystal at its tip pulsed slow and ominous, like a heartbeat beneath the earth.

“The lore around these relics,” he said reverently, “I offer proof it’s real.”

Turning back to Marc, he said quietly, “This sarcophagus doesn’t belong to anyone.”

Mariam stiffened.

A tightening wave spread through her spine, rippling down her limbs. Nephthys flared within her—a full presence now, breath against her neck, heat without fire, weightless but undeniable. She stayed silent, jaw tight, feet rooted. Not yet.

Above, the wind shifted.

Sudden. Unnatural.

Like the desert itself had inhaled.

The torches danced wildly.

Marc’s head snapped upward.

There, high above the stone columns and archways, Khonshu loomed—a deathless sentinel silhouetted beneath the crescent moon. His skeletal form was sharp and inhuman. His robes whipped in a wind that didn’t touch the ground. He looked down with the disdain of a god beyond empires.

“Do it,” Khonshu commanded, voice cold and relentless, slicing through Marc’s mind like a blade through silk. “Summon the suit.”

Marc didn’t answer.

His breath was shallow. His chest rose and fell like a man resurfacing from deep water. His fists curled tight. His jaw set. His pulse thundered in his throat.

“Give them what they deserve,” the god hissed, pointing his gnarled staff at the guards, at Mogart, at Harrow.

Marc’s eyes stayed locked on Khonshu, unreadable in the flickering light. Fury simmered inside—but so did something else. Guilt. Restraint. The endless war within him, the friction of duty and defiance. He looked like a man haunted by every life taken, every choice undone. And now the god demanded more.

The courtyard was breathless.

Then—Marc shook his head.

Just once.

Just no.

Harrow’s gaze returned to Anton, voice low and persuasive. “Anton, would you like to see for yourself?”

Anton, still watching the glowing scarab, nodded. “Yes, I do.”

The two approached the shattered sarcophagus, now dimly lit by moonlight filtering through the glass pyramid. The guards trained rifles on Mariam and Layla. Nephthys burned at the edges of Mariam’s mind.

Harrow lifted his cane.

He began chanting, guttural Coptic rolling from his tongue with unnatural precision. The purple glow of the cane pulsed, brightening—like thunderclouds gathering before a storm.

A burst of energy cracked the air. Dark violet clouds spiraled from the cane, enveloping the sarcophagus in a violent, hissing shroud. The stone trembled, cracked, and shattered. The coffin imploded, ancient craftsmanship reduced to dust.

Layla gasped. Mariam flinched, heart lurching.

Harrow turned, robes catching the wind. Calm, collected, he walked away as if it were nothing.

“That,” he said over his shoulder with a slow smile, “is just a taste of the power I offer.”

His eyes flicked to Marc, smug satisfaction briefly crossing his face.

Then a voice cut through the tension:

“Hey—he’s gone!”

One guard pointed frantically to where Marc had stood.

Layla spun. Mariam’s breath hitched.

She followed the arm’s line upward—

And there, above them, Marc loomed. 

Fully suited. Gleaming. Radiant.

Khonshu’s white avatar armor shone in the moonlight, haloed against the glass and steel of the pyramid. His cape fluttered like wings behind him. His glowing eyes locked on Harrow with silent fury.

Chapter Text

FROM THE ROOFTOP, MARC’S SILHOUETTE was a shadow against the moonlit glass. In one sharp, practiced motion, he drew a Crescent Dart and flung it through the air. It sliced clean through the night—sharp, gleaming—before burying itself deep in the shoulder of the man holding Layla.

The guard yelped, the cry tearing from his throat as he stumbled back, shock breaking his grip just enough—just in time—for Layla to wrench herself free. She ducked low, diving behind a nearby crate, vanishing from reach.

Mariam didn’t hesitate. The moment the dart flew, she let go of the fear bristling inside her—and felt Nephthys rise. A quiet hum built in her bones, a familiar tremor of power answering her surrender. Black silk surged from her skin like a tide, moving with unnatural grace. It wrapped her in shadow and gold—tight, glimmering—forming an armor that breathed with divine power, alive and watchful.

The man holding her blinked in shock, eyes wide as he stumbled back, but it was too late. With one fluid motion, Mariam drove her fist into his gut, sending him reeling with a choked grunt. She didn’t stop. Spinning low, she swept his legs out from under him with a practiced twist, bringing him crashing down. A sharp kick to his chest knocked the wind out of him as he hit the ground with a thud, limbs sprawling.

Marc’s cape flared behind him as he landed beside her, catching the moonlight in a sharp, silver curve—flowing like a crescent moon carved from the night sky. The fabric rippled, a ghost of something ancient and deadly in his wake. He straightened at Mariam’s side, his suit gleaming in the pale moonlight, breath steady, jaw set.

There was no need to speak.

She could feel the quiet ripple of Nephthys watching, her presence wrapping around them like a mantle—silent, proud, approving. For a moment, they stood together—two avatars cloaked in shadow and starlight, gods breathing through mortal skin, bound not just by duty but by something deeper.

Gunfire cracked through the night like thunder—sharp, sudden. Muzzle flashes lit the rooftop’s far edge as half a dozen of Mogart’s men opened fire, shouting orders in French and Arabic. Bullets pinged off metal, shattered glass, sparking wildly in the moonlight.

Layla yelped, ducking lower behind the crate, hands over her head. She was exposed—the distance just far enough, just vulnerable enough for bullets to find her if anyone had a clear shot.

Mariam didn’t think. She felt Nephthys surge through her, that ever-present hum rising in her chest to a piercing pitch. A pulse of warmth bloomed across her palms as she thrust out her hands, fingers splayed wide.

Shadow answered.

It erupted from her like a second skin, unfurling in sheets of black and gold that snapped into a barrier between Layla and the shooters. The forcefield shimmered—woven obsidian laced with starlight—each bullet dissolving into sparks on contact with the divine veil.

Mariam braced herself, gritting her teeth as the pressure rattled through her bones. Holding it steady took more strength than it should have. Her knees nearly buckled.

A blur of movement shot past her.

Marc’s cape flared wide, like the expansive wings of a dark guardian, as he hurled himself between Mariam and the sudden hail of bullets. The sharp cracks of gunfire echoed through the air, but the shots met Khonshu’s cloak—unyielding, impenetrable—deflecting as if they were mere drops of rain splashing harmlessly against iron. Not a single muscle twitched on Marc’s resolute form. He stood unmoving, an immovable bastion, bearing the full brutal weight of the assault to shield Mariam and Layla from harm.

His eyes briefly locked with Mariam’s, and he gave a single, slow nod—an unspoken command, fierce and clear. It was all the reassurance she needed.

Mariam exhaled steadily and let the shimmering shield surrounding them dissolve with a gentle release of breath. Her body trembled beneath the sudden absence of protection; pain bloomed like icy fire along her limbs, raw and insistent. Yet beneath the physical ache, the fierce, cold presence of Nephthys settled within her—a quiet, unwavering flame of strength and resolve that steadied her trembling spirit.

A voice—ancient, and weighted with timeless authority—whispered directly into her mind, its tone heavy with ominous warning: “I can summon Senfu from the beyond… but only for a fleeting moment. To do so is to defy the Enead. There will be consequences.”

Mariam’s throat tightened, the weight of that truth pressing hard against her chest. She forced herself to speak, voice steady despite the fear gnawing inside. “Marc, buy me some time.”

Marc nodded firmly, the promise clear in his unwavering gaze. “I can do that.”

Turning to her sister, Mariam’s voice took on an urgent edge.“Layla, come with me. We have no time to lose.”

Together, they moved swiftly, weaving through the shattered remains of their surroundings. Each step was heavy but purposeful, pulling them closer to the fractured sarcophagus—their last, fragile hope.

Kneeling beside the ruin, Mariam reached out with trembling hands, invoking Nephthys once more. The air around them thickened, humming with an eerie, otherworldly energy that seemed to vibrate with the weight of countless lost souls. From the cracked stone emerged Senfu’s ghostly form—pale and fragile, suspended painfully between the realms of the living and the dead.

But his lips remained sealed. A profound, unbreakable silence bound him—a sacred oath forged beyond death’s threshold.

Mariam’s voice dropped to a desperate whisper. “Senfu… please, speak. Tell me where to find Ammit’s tomb.”

Only silence answered, cold and unyielding.

Inside her mind, Nephthys’ voice returned—bitter, resigned. “He cannot speak. His vow holds him fast. I must release him before we lose what little time remains.”

The apparition’s form began to fade, slipping slowly back into the shadowy depths from which it came, leaving behind an aching void that seemed to swallow the very air around them.

Mariam clenched her jaw against the pain of failure. “Layla, find the remaining constellation fragments—now.”

Without hesitation, Mariam vanished into the smoke and ruin, swift and silent as a shadow cast by the dying light.

𓂀

Mariam’s gaze snapped back toward the distant tumult—the raging battle where Marc stood alone, outnumbered but unbowed. A hard edge settled over her features, steeling her heart against the storm to come. The gods’ wrath might soon fall upon her for what she had done—but for now, survival was the only path forward.

Across the field, Marc moved with ferocity. Every punch was precise, every motion sharp and practiced. He ducked a baton swing, countered with a savage uppercut that knocked his attacker out cold. His eyes swept constantly—not just threats, but Mariam too.

She moved with divine grace—shadows curling around her legs as she dodged a kick, then slammed her elbow into a gunman’s head. Her movements weren’t flashy—they were efficient. Focused. Lethal.

Mariam drove her shoulder into a guard’s chest, slamming him against a cracked column. He struggled briefly before she twisted his arm behind his back and hooked her foot behind his knee, preparing to slam him down.

Then, mid-motion, she froze.

Because the man in the sharp white suit standing a dozen feet away wasn’t Marc anymore.

“That’s it!” Steven’s voice rang out over the chaos—exasperated and very much not suited for combat. The Moon Knight suit shifted around him, sleek and pressed, the tie still knotted even as bullets flew.

Steven stepped forward, arms raised, palms open.

“All right—time out! That’s it, time out!” he called, voice cracking as he made a desperate T with his hands.

Mariam gaped at him, still holding her dazed attacker. “Steven?” she muttered, incredulous.

Steven turned toward the gunmen, trying to defuse it like a pub fight. “Guys, let’s all calm down, yeah? We’re all worked up. Let’s just, like, chill the F out and talk for a second—”

The crack of hooves interrupted him.

Three of Mogart’s men thundered onto the field on horseback, makeshift armor glinting, each armed with spears scavenged from wreckage.

Steven’s eyes went wide. “Oh no.”

One spear arced through the air.

It struck him square in the chest with a sickening thud.

Steven staggered back, eyes wide with disbelief. “Oh—okay—that’s—OW—” he gasped, doubling over just as another rider jabbed him again.

A third spear drove into his side, lifting him half a step before he collapsed to one knee. “Take the body—take the body—take the body, Marc!” he cried, voice high and desperate.

Then, with a jolt, he vanished—his face tightening as Marc snapped back in control mid-movement.

The suit reformed instantly, changing around him as he sprang upright, catching the next spear in one gloved hand and yanking the rider off the horse. The attacker hit the ground hard and didn’t move again.

Across the field, Mariam exhaled sharply through her nose, shaking her head.

“Idiot,” she muttered—not without affection.

Then, without missing a beat, she turned back to the stunned man still in her grasp—and drove her fist into his face. He crumpled like wet paper.

Marc grunted as another spear slammed into his side, driving him down to one knee. Two men held him by the arms, another pummeled him across the back with a metal rod. He spat blood into the sand. But his eyes weren’t on them—they were locked on her.

Mariam was still fighting—shadows twisting up her arms, stance solid. She struck a man across the jaw with her elbow, spun, and dropped another with a blast of energy. Her breathing was heavy—movements slower—but she held her own. Then hooves thundered fast.

Marc’s head snapped sideways just in time to see Mogart bearing down—horse thundering, blade raised high.

“Mariam!!” Marc screamed.

She turned. Too late.

The blade struck her head with a sickening crack. Mariam staggered, head jerking sideways from the impact. But she didn’t fall. Not yet.

She dropped to one knee, one hand braced in the sand, chest heaving. She shook her head hard, trying to focus, trying to stay up—but everything spun. Her fingers clawed the earth as if to hold herself.

Marc watched in horror as her shoulders sagged—then gave out completely. She crumpled, flat in the sand.

“Mariam!!” he roared, voice breaking.

Something snapped in him.

He surged up with a howl, slamming his forehead into the nose of the man holding his right side. The man reeled, screaming. Marc spun on the other, yanked his arm free, slammed an elbow into ribs, then throat. The last attacker rushed in—Marc caught him, twisted, slammed him to the ground hard. No movement after.

Marc didn’t glance back. His eyes stayed on her—motionless in the sand, limbs splayed.

Mogart circled again on horseback, lining up for the final strike.

Marc ran—boots tearing through dust. Mogart raised his weapon.

Marc was faster.

He dove the last feet, catching Mariam in his arms, rolling across the sand just as the horse thundered past. The spear missed by inches. They tumbled to a stop—Marc on top, shielding her.

He didn’t think. He just moved.

Rising to one knee, arm cocked, Crescent Dart in hand, he threw.

The dart hit Mogart between the shoulder blades—deep. The man toppled from saddle like a rag doll, hitting face-first. No movement.

Silence followed—only leather creaking and the horse’s panicked snort as it galloped away riderless.

Marc turned quickly, brushing Mariam’s hair from her face, frantic.

“Hey—hey, talk to me. Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

Mariam’s head lolled slightly. “Ow,” she mumbled.

Marc leaned closer, heart pounding. “Mariam. Look at me. Can you hear me? Are you—”

“Stop yelling,” she muttered blearily. “Jesus.”

He exhaled hard in relief, huffing a shaky laugh. “Okay. Yeah. She’s fine.”

Mariam stirred, jaw tightening as she groaned and pushed an elbow beneath her. Her arm shook, muscles straining.

Marc caught her before she fully sat up, one arm braced behind her back. “Hey—careful,” he warned, voice low but urgent. “Take it slow.”

“I’m fine,” she muttered, trying to bat his hand away, only half succeeding. She winced, blinking hard as the world swam sideways. Her fingers dug briefly into the sand, anchoring herself as breath caught.

Marc kept a steady hand on her shoulder, grounding her. “You just got clocked in the head by a man on a horse, Mariam.”

She swayed, then forced herself upright, legs tucked, spine trembling but stubborn. “It’s not like I’ve never had a concussion before,” she muttered, one eye squinting against the light.

“That’s not the comforting line you think it is.”

She gave him a sidelong look, dazed but defiant. “Well, I’m not dead. You’re welcome.”

Marc exhaled, half laugh, half sigh, scanning her for worse injuries. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You married me,” she slurred a little.

“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing sand from her cheek, touch gentle despite the adrenaline. “I did.”

That was when the air shifted. Not from wind. Not from fear. But from something deeper. Older.

A silence that pressed in from all sides. Not empty— watching .

Mariam slowly stood. Her legs trembled, but she found her balance, straightening with the brittle steadiness of someone who had lost too much to falter now. Her pulse thudded in her ears, heavy and dull, as if each beat was marking something ending.

And then she saw her. Standing just beyond the fractured stone, tall and still as a monument half-sunken in sand—Nephthys. Towering. Timeless. Divine.

She rose against the night like a shadow carved from obsidian, swathed in flowing black mourning robes that shimmered faintly with threads of starlight and ancient dust. Her form was impossibly graceful—long limbs and arched neck, the unmistakable head of a vulture crowned with the flat headdress that bore her name. Feathers darker than any night sky rippled along her arms and back, glinting with hints of gold. Her eyes—those sharp, unblinking, eternal eyes—glowed with a faint, lunar light.

She was death. She was mourning. She was memory. She was mercy. And she stood in utter silence, watching the one who had carried her name.

Mariam froze. Her breath caught in her throat. Her body knew before her mind did that something sacred was leaving.

The goddess stepped forward, soundless. No footfalls, no rustle, no weight—only the faint curl of dust in her wake, as if even the earth bent reverently beneath her. Her robes moved with solemnity, whispering secrets only the dead remembered.

Her gaze never wavered.

And though her beak did not move, her voice came—not spoken, but delivered , a sound that lived in the space between heartbeats. Low. Resonant. Measured by eternity.

“All actions have consequences.”

Mariam didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She stood motionless, chin lifted, shoulders set, the muscles in her jaw tense from the effort of not breaking. Her eyes shimmered, not with tears, but with the unbearable weight of knowing.

Nephthys came closer. The world seemed to shrink around her presence. “The choice was mine,” the goddess spoke in whispers. “But the cost must be paid.”

A pause, deep and full. 

“You were never a vessel.”

Mariam blinked, her throat constricting. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

“You were a guardian. You defied them for the right reasons.”

Nephthys’s gaze softened—barely. The glow behind her eyes dimmed to something gentler, older. She loomed, immense and aching and endless.

“Stop Harrow,” she said, her voice now fading like a dream already forgetting itself. “Before he unravels what remains of this world. Humanity cannot survive what he brings.”

And then—slowly—Nephthys lifted one massive, wrapped hand. The gesture was not commanding. It was… tender. Like a goodbye.

Mariam reached out, her own hand shaking. Smaller. Mortal. But sure.

Their fingers never touched—only hovered, a breath apart. A heartbeat from connection.

And then the unraveling began.

The goddess’s form began to dissolve—not quickly, not violently, but gently. As if she were being called back to the place she came from. The darkness of her robes unraveled into strands of black light, lifted upward like smoke in reverse. Gold-threaded dust scattered into the air, catching moonlight before vanishing.

Her vulture head—so iconic, so steady—was the last to go. It lingered for long moments, watching Mariam with eyes that saw everything. That always had. Eyes that mourned.

Her armor, too, began to fade—no longer needed. The black silk sloughed from her limbs like memory being released, the golden trim fracturing into specks that glimmered and vanished. Nothing fell. Nothing dropped. It simply… let go.

And then came the silence. The absence. The stillness that followed was different. Not sacred—just empty. The space where power had been.

Mariam lowered her hand. And in that moment, she felt it all. The hollowness. The ache. The impossibly quiet weight of being left behind. Where once there had been divine presence—warmth, power, purpose —there was now only the sound of her own breath. And it was quiet. So quiet.

Chapter Text

THE SILENCE IN THE CAR STRETCHED long and thin, like the endless road unfolding ahead beneath the tires. It was a quiet so deep it felt almost sacred, broken only by the soft whoosh of rubber gliding over asphalt and the occasional creak and groan of the suspension adjusting to the uneven desert terrain. Outside, the vast darkness pressed close, an empty canvas painted with distant stars and the faint glow of a moon half-hidden by drifting clouds.

Mariam shifted stiffly in her seat, the weight of her injuries pressing down like invisible chains. Her ribs ached with each shallow breath, bruises blooming beneath her skin like dark, painful flowers. Behind her eyes, a dull, relentless pounding echoed—a migraine born of strain and loss that throbbed in cruel waves. She swallowed hard against the nausea rising in her throat, trying to steady her hands as she reached down into the duffel bag resting by her feet.

Her movements were slow, deliberate, each one a small victory over the sharp pulse that flared suddenly in her temples, forcing a soft wince to escape her lips. She pulled out a fresh set of clothes—black cargo pants, loose and breathable, and a dark shirt made from light fabric suited for the harsh desert heat. But then she paused, fingers pressing to her forehead as if to physically hold back the relentless ache clawing inside her skull.

The loss of Nephthys was far more than a mere stripping away of divine power. It was the severing of a sacred bond, a shattering of purpose that had once defined her very being. A quiet voice whispered within her—soft, mournful, like the echo of a goddess called home, leaving Mariam alone to navigate the long, winding, uncertain path of mortality.

Yet beneath the ache and the sorrow, beneath the weight of all that had been lost, a stubborn flame burned deep inside her chest. A flicker of defiance and resolve, fragile but fierce, refusing to be snuffed out. It was the fragile ember of hope, the quiet promise that whatever came next, she would face it on her own terms.

Behind her, Marc tugged his ruined shirt over his head, wincing as dried blood caught on the fabric. He didn’t look at either of them as he balled it up and tossed it into the trunk along with his jacket.

“I really liked that jacket,” he muttered again. “Oh well.”

Mariam said nothing. She peeled off her dusty outer layer slowly, every movement measured and sluggish as the headache throbbed, making the world tilt just a little. Marc glanced up briefly as she pulled her arms through the sleeves of the new shirt, but her face was pale and strained—held together by sheer force.

Up front, Layla gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror—not to check traffic, but to watch Marc. Suspicion rested heavy on her brow, like it’d settled in for good.

It wasn’t until Mariam let out a slow, uneven breath that the silence snapped taut.

“What was Harrow talking about back there?” she asked, voice tight and unsteady, her hand briefly rubbing her temple as if to soothe the pounding pain.

Marc’s voice came from behind, guarded. “What do you mean?”

Mariam turned just enough to meet his eyes. She blinked slowly, then rubbed the back of her neck, trying to push past the fog clouding her thoughts.

“He said Layla and I had the right to know.”

There was a pause. Marc’s eyes narrowed slightly, weighing how much to say. Then, with deliberate casualness, he shrugged.

“I have no idea,” he said, tossing the shirt aside, muscles tense.

Layla cut in, quieter but sharp. “We never told anyone why we really moved… but he knew.”

She glanced at Marc through the mirror. The air shifted—something heavy had settled in, no one willing to face it.

Marc shook his head. “He’s just trying to mess with you two. Get inside your heads.”

Mariam didn’t answer right away. She tugged the hem of her shirt down over her hips, movements sluggish, as if her limbs weren’t quite hers. Her jaw tightened, and she blinked rapidly, trying to clear the blurring edges of her vision.

Marc saw. “Mari, no. Don’t let him do that,” he said, leaning forward between the seats. “He’s obsessed—thinks he can see people’s ‘true nature.’ If that were true, would he have all those homicidal maniacs following him?”

Mariam finally looked at him, voice low and rough around the edges. She reached up to rub the side of her head again, wincing when the pressure flared.

“So it’s not true? What he said about you and…”

“No,” Marc said immediately, firm. “No. It’s not true. He’s just trying to divide us.”

She nodded once. That was all. Just a nod.

But she didn’t look at him again.

She stared out the window through another stretch of silence, head resting lightly against the cool glass. Layla said nothing, didn’t even blink hard. The only sounds were tires, wind, and the faint rustle as Mariam drew her knees up and curled her arms around them, closing her eyes briefly as the headache throbbed relentlessly behind her lids.

Then, barely audible:

“Every time I think things are getting better…” Her voice trembled, fragile under the strain. “I find out something new. Like there’s always another secret waiting around the corner. Like I’m walking through your life blindfolded, just waiting to trip over the next thing you’ve hidden.”

Her voice cracked on the last word. She looked away, blinking fast, but tears glistened in the dashboard glow.

Marc’s face crumpled in the mirror. “Mariam…”

She wiped her face with her shirt sleeve, breathing shallow, pressing her palm once more to her temple as if the pain might break free.

“It’s like I don’t know you at all,” she whispered.

“You do,” Marc said quickly. “You do know me.”

She shook her head weakly. He pressed on.

“You do,” he said softer now. “And I know you. We know each other. That’s real. Harrow—he wants to take that from us. Don’t let him.”

Mariam stayed silent, her head slowly tilting to the side, eyelids heavy. Layla kept her eyes on the road, knuckles white on the wheel. The car rolled on, into the night.

𓂀

The sand stretched out like black glass beneath the stars—endless and unmoving. The car sat idle, its engine ticking faintly as it cooled in the crisp desert air. Moonlight drenched the nearby ruins in silver, casting long shadows over stone and dune alike. The only sounds were the soft rush of wind across sand and their own weary breathing.

Mariam stood with Marc and Layla at the hood, arms loosely folded, her face pale beneath the rising bruise at her temple. The headlamp strapped to the mirror cast a harsh, directional glow over the battered remains of the constellation map. Each charred piece they touched curled or flaked, fragile as ash.

“Try that,” Marc murmured, passing Layla a brittle shard.

“Maybe,” Layla said, uncertain, taping it next to another with a flicker of hope.

Mariam frowned, shaking her head. “No. That’s wrong. Try something else.”

Marc met her gaze—grim, tired. “There’s nothing whole. Just fragments.” His voice was low, frustrated.

Then, suddenly— whack —both palms slammed down on the hood, scattering sand. “This is gonna take forever.”

He turned away, dragging both hands through his hair, shoulders tense beneath the moonlight.

Mariam glanced at Layla, then at Marc—his back tense, fists braced against the hood as he stared down at the scattered fragments. She wet her lips, hesitating.

“Marc…” Her voice was quiet, too careful. “I think we need Steven.”

His shoulders stiffened.

She stepped closer. “Just for a minute.”

“No.” He didn’t look at her.

“Marc—”

“I said no.” He turned then, eyes flashing under the harsh light. “Every time I let him in, it takes longer to get back. You want to waste more time fighting for control while Harrow closes in?”

Above them, a shadow shifted.

Khonshu stood atop the car, bird-skull tilted down, watching with cold indifference. His voice rumbled low and harsh, cutting through the desert air. “I summon the gods. You summon the worm. He will not return the body.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Mariam ask with something of anger. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re down to one god, one Avatar,” she didn’t flinch, but her hands curled tighter around her sleeves.

Layla turned sharply. “Who are you talking to?”

Mariam didn’t look at her. She flicked a hand toward the roof, voice dry. “Pigeon.”

Layla blinked. “What?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Mariam’s eyes stayed locked on Marc, expression tight with frustration and something rawer beneath. “Look, I know this isn’t what you want,” she said, her voice low but insistent now. “But we can’t afford to screw this up. We’re out of time, Marc.”

She took a step closer, the wind catching at her sleeves. “You don’t have to like it,” she added quietly, “But we need him.”

Marc didn’t answer. Didn’t look at her. But something in his shoulders shifted.

Marc turned back slowly, jaw clenched, eyes burning. Then, with a guttural yell, he ripped off one of the side mirrors and swept the map fragments off the hood into his arms. Without a word, he stormed past them, boots kicking up sand, muttering curses under his breath.

Layla blinked, startled. “What is he doing ?”

Mariam frowned, steadying herself with a breath. “Stay here.”

She followed.

A few paces from the car, Marc had dropped to his knees, spreading the charred fragments beside the broken mirror—its cracked surface catching the sky in warped reflection. He was taping them together again, slower now. More careful. Focused.

Mariam approached gently, her steps soft against the shifting sand. Her voice came quiet, coaxing.

“Steven?”

His hands froze. He looked up slowly. And just like that—he changed.

His whole face lit up, eyes wide, brows lifted in unmistakable relief. For a moment he just stared, like he wasn’t sure she was real. Then a bright, boyish smile broke across his face—unguarded and warm.

“Mariam,” he breathed, as if her name alone made the world make sense again.

She smiled, caught off guard by the sudden tenderness in him. As she crouched beside him, Steven instinctively reached out to steady her by the arm—his touch light, but sure.

“You alright?” he asked, scanning her face. “You look—uh—not bad! Just a bit… bruised. Bit concussed.”

“I’m fine,” she said softly, her smile tugging. “Thanks.”

He flushed, ducking his head. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.” Then—without missing a beat—his voice lifted, a little spark in it. “Did you know Egyptians invented modern navigation?”

She blinked, surprised by the pivot. “No. Tell me.”

“Yeah—’cause there’s no landmarks out here, right? Just endless sand. So they used the sun, the stars—built entire systems around them. It’s brilliant, honestly.”

He looked back down, fingers moving with renewed purpose, taping the fragments with a careful, practiced rhythm. She watched, quiet, the tension in her shoulders beginning to ease.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “It is.”

A few moments passed, then Steven gave a small, triumphant grin. “ Et voilà. ”

He held the completed star up to the sky. It was a charred patchwork, but whole—five points inked with faint constellations now catching the starlight.

Mariam exhaled. “Wow.”

Steven beamed. “It’s French.”

She laughed—light, for the first time in hours. “I know.”

They just looked at each other for a second—until Layla’s voice cut through the stillness. “If you’re done flirting,” she said as she approached, “What do we do with that?”

Steven flinched like she’d hit him with a spotlight. “Fl—what?” he stammered, blinking rapidly. “I wasn’t— I mean—no one was flirting.”

Mariam turned slightly toward him, one brow raised in quiet amusement.

Steven’s hands tightened on the map. “I was just explaining! About stars. And ancient navigation. Educational content, really.”

Layla arched an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

He glanced at Mariam, then quickly back at the map, ears turning red. “Right. Uh. The map.” He cleared his throat, angling the paper toward the headlights like it had betrayed him. “So… well… I’m not sure,” he began hesitantly, “but if…” He trailed off, eyes narrowing at the markings as his focus sharpened—then he lit up.

“Hang on a minute. Do you see that? Those little pinpricks there?” He pointed near the center of the map. “That’s a constellation.”

Layla stepped forward, leaning in. “We should be able to triangulate the stars into coordinates, right?” She was already digging into her bag. She pulled out a small scanning device and held it up to the paper.

A soft beep sounded. Layla frowned at the screen, her thumb swiping across it. “It’s not working,” she muttered.

Mariam sighed, already piecing it together. “Because Senfu marked the tomb over two thousand years ago. Stars have drifted.”

Steven nodded solemnly. “That constellation isn’t where it was back then. That could mean the difference between us searching miles and miles away from where we’re supposed to be.”

Mariam looked at him, voice quiet but steady. “So unless we know what the stars looked like two thousand years ago…”

Steven nodded grimly, eyes locked on the tattered constellation map in his hand. “We’re buggered.”

Before either of them could speak again, a voice—deep, ancient, and echoing—cut through the cool desert air. It rolled like the restless wind through forgotten tombs, thick with the gravity of timeless power.

“I remember that night,” it intoned. “I remember every night.”

Mariam and Steven spun around sharply. Atop the nearest dune, Khonshu stood framed against the infinite cosmos. His towering form was cloaked in shadow and silver moonlight, the crescent skull of his visage gleaming like polished ivory against the black void. His eyes, cold and unyielding, burned with the weight of eternity.

Without a word, he turned and began a slow, deliberate ascent up the dune, his presence at once haunting and majestic.

Steven moved first, boots sinking softly into the sand, Mariam close behind. Together they climbed, the silence between them heavy with tense anticipation.

When they reached the summit, the god was gone.

“Khonshu?” Steven’s voice cracked, breath catching as he scanned the star-studded expanse.

The voice returned—disembodied yet near, like a whisper carried on the desert breeze. “I can turn back the night sky.”

Steven’s eyes lifted, wide with disbelief. “How?”

“It will come at a cost,” Khonshu warned, voice low and resolute. “And I cannot do it alone.”

Beneath Steven’s feet, the sand shifted, grains spiraling upward as if stirred by unseen hands. The desert wind twisted around him, alive with divine intent. 

Then, from the swirling sand, Khonshu’s form materialized behind him—shadow made flesh. His gaze softened briefly as he spoke to Mariam.

“When the gods imprison me, tell Marc to free me.”

Mariam stood frozen, lips parted, before slowly nodding, her hand rising to rest just above her heart in solemn vow.

Steven exhaled shakily, bracing himself. Drawing a deep breath, he spread his arms wide as if to embrace the night itself. The suit shimmered into place—white fabric molding over his limbs, the cowl settling over his head like a shard of living moonlight.

“Do as I do,” Khonshu commanded, his voice booming like thunder beneath the stars.

With deliberate grace, the god raised his hands to the heavens. Steven mirrored him, fingers reaching upward.

The stars began to shift—slowly at first, then gathering momentum. They rewound across the night sky like an ancient celestial reel, galaxies rippling in deep purples and blues, swirling in radiant arcs overhead. Time itself seemed to coil and spiral backward, the air crackling with raw divine energy.

Mariam stood breathless, mouth slightly open, eyes wide with awe.

Beside her, Layla stepped forward cautiously, voice trembling. “Oh my god…”

“This is… surprisingly painful,” Steven gritted out, shoulders trembling under the strain as he held the pose.

Mariam rushed to his side, steadying him with a firm hand on his back. “I’m here, habibi,” she whispered.

Steven’s heart clenched fiercely—part from the searing effort burning through his body, part from the unexpected tenderness in her voice that cut through the pain like a balm. His teeth clenched hard, jaw rigid, as every fiber of his being screamed to give up, but he fought on, driven by something more than strength—hope, trust, and the fragile promise of her presence.

Layla circled them slowly, raising the device, its screen flickering as it scanned the shifting constellations. “It’s working!” she shouted, eyes shining bright.

“Yeah,” Steven groaned, eyes watering behind the mask. “It’s working. Good.”

Khonshu dropped to his knees beside them, his form flickering like a dying flame—fragile, wavering beneath the crushing weight of divine reckoning closing in.

“I can feel my energy leaving me!” Steven gasped, staggering forward until a trembling hand caught him, steadying his faltering balance. 

The suit’s shimmering fabric peeled away in streaks of silver dust, dissolving like smoke, revealing his face—etched with pain and fierce resolve, every muscle straining against an unseen, relentless tide.

“Hurry up, Layla!” Mariam shouted, urgency sharp in her voice.

Layla’s eyes flicked over the screen. “Coordinates found! 29 degrees north, 25 east. I’ve got it!”

Steven sagged, collapsing onto the sand, gasping for breath. Mariam dropped beside him in a rush, her hands immediately steadying his trembling shoulders. Her eyes darted over his face, brows furrowing as she searched for any sign of how badly he was struggling.

She brushed damp hair back from his forehead, fingers lingering as if to anchor him. Her jaw tightened, and she pressed her palm firmly against his back, offering silent support as the stars snapped back into their rightful places overhead.

Across from them, Khonshu knelt—still, motionless. His form faded, color draining until he looked ashen. Fragments of his being flaked away like brittle dust caught in a slow, mournful wind.

Khonshu’s hollow eyes met theirs one last time, ancient and full of sacrifice. Then, he crumbled, disappearing. Imprisoned in stone.

Chapter Text

STEVEN COLLAPSED, THE VERY LAST FLICKER of starlight draining slowly and completely from his eyes, leaving them dull and lifeless as his body gave way beneath him and he fell forward, landing heavily on the coarse, unforgiving sand with a deep, hollow thud that echoed faintly in the stillness around him.

“Steven?”

Mariam was already at his side in an instant, stumbling forward over the uneven dunes, her knees scraping harshly against the coarse, grainy sand as she dropped down beside him. The rough texture bit into her skin, but she barely noticed, focused entirely on him. 

Her hands trembled uncontrollably as she reached out, cautiously turning him onto his back with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the urgency pounding in her chest. Fine grains of sand sifted into the folds of his shirt, clinging stubbornly to the damp fabric and settling in his curls, darkened by sweat and dust.

“Steven? Marc?” Her voice wavered, growing more urgent with every breath, laced thickly with panic that tightened her throat and shook her frame. 

The desert night around them was silent, the vast emptiness pressing in like a weight, broken only by her trembling whispers. 

His eyes remained closed, as if shut against some unbearable darkness. His breathing was shallow, faint—but steady, a fragile thread of life barely flickering but unmistakably there. His mouth hung slightly open, jaw slack and relaxed, lips parted just enough to reveal the subtle, uneven rise and fall of his chest.

Mariam’s fingers brushed the damp strands of hair away from his forehead, trembling as she leaned closer, her breath hitching in her throat. “You’re going to be okay. Just wake up, please…” Her voice cracked, breaking with desperation and raw fear, the weight of the moment pressing down on her like the oppressive desert heat.

“Mariam!” Layla’s voice cut through the silence like a blade—urgent, sharp, slicing through the stillness. “Look!”

Mariam turned—and froze.

Just over the nearest hill, a low rumble swelled into a thunderous roar. Headlights burst into view, bouncing wildly as a beat-up military truck surged over the dune’s crest, wheels throwing sand in wide arcs. The engine snarled—a beast unleashed.

Behind the wheel, a man leaned forward, eyes cold and fixed. Two others sat in the truck bed, rifles slung across their backs, scarves pulled tight over their mouths. All bore Harrow’s colors—symbols of menace and death. The vehicle bore down like a predator stalking its prey.

Layla spun toward her, eyes wide, fierce. “We’ll come back for him,” she said, gripping Mariam’s arm tightly. “We have to hide. If they see us—”

Mariam didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to leave him—helpless, vulnerable, alone. 

But Layla was already pulling her back toward the jeep—low to the ground, pressed behind battered tires, ducking beneath the ripped canvas tarp flapping loose from the frame.

They huddled in the cramped shadow between crates and fraying fabric. The air reeked of gasoline, gun oil, and sweat. The rough canvas scraped Mariam’s cheek as she pressed her face to the floor, listening.

The truck screeched to a halt nearby, tires skidding on loose sand. Harsh voices rang out in Arabic—curious, mocking.

“Looks like he’s dead.”

Laughter burst—short, sharp, grating like nails on stone in Mariam’s ears.

Her jaw clenched as her eyes caught a cracked plastic crate inches from her hand. Inside—emergency flares. Bright red. Neatly stacked. Forgotten. Slowly, silently, she reached. Fingers curling around one.

Then she turned to Layla, voice low, quiet, deadly calm. “Stay here.”

Layla grabbed her wrist, desperate. “Mariam, don’t.”

But Mariam was already gone. She slipped out the back of the jeep like a shadow breaking free—her silhouette a ghost beneath the harsh moonlight. The flare burned hot in her grip before she even struck it.

A sharp scrape of metal—fssshht—and a burst of red light screamed to life in her hand.

The night ignited instantly, crimson flames ripping through the darkness like a beacon of defiance. The flare cast monstrous, flickering shadows behind her, throwing her face into stark relief—determined, fierce, unyielding.

“There!” one of the men barked, voice harsh and startled.

Gunfire erupted.

The crack of bullets shattered the night, each shot exploding like thunder. Bullets whipped past, slicing through the sand mere inches from where Mariam dove low, muscles tensing as she pressed herself flat against the rough earth.

Heart pounding, breath ragged, she blinked through the smoke and red haze, eyes sharp, calculating her next move.

The world around her narrowed, collapsing into a sharp, relentless symphony—the crack of bullets tearing through the air, the pounding rush of blood roaring in her ears like a storm. The jeep beneath her trembled violently with each devastating impact, every shudder threatening to toss her off. One bullet snapped past her cheek, close enough to singe her skin—a searing whisper of death brushing by.

The truck behind them skidded wildly, tires screaming against the rough desert ground as it fought desperately to regain control, to pivot, to find her again.

But before the men inside could recover—before they could regroup and press the attack—Mariam summoned every shred of strength left. Burning with fierce determination, she pushed herself halfway up and hurled the flare with raw, desperate force from deep inside.

The flare arced through the night sky in a perfect, furious curve—glowing bright red and fierce like a comet blazing across darkness—before landing squarely in the bed of the truck.

It bounced once. Then twice. Then rolled, with slow, ominous inevitability, into a wooden crate stacked high with ammunition.

Silence. A single heartbeat.

Then—BOOM.

The explosion tore through the desert night like a wild beast freed from its cage, a monstrous roar swallowing every other sound whole. Heat and light burst outward in a furious wave, engulfing the truck in a blooming inferno of roaring flames. Metal twisted and shrieked under the assault. Tires detonated one after another with savage blasts echoing across the dunes. The firestorm swallowed everything—men, machine, and all—in an unrelenting blaze.

The men inside didn’t scream for long.

The shockwave slammed into Mariam like a brutal punch to the chest, flinging her backward, crashing hard onto the unforgiving sand. Her ears rang violently, filled with high-pitched ringing. Her skin stung, burning as if touched by countless tiny flames. The world faded into a blinding white haze.

Ash began to fall—slow, heavy flakes drifting down like frozen rain settling softly over the scorched earth.

She lay on her side, stunned and gasping, the flare of heat fading into crackling silence pressing against her eardrums. Every breath scraped her lungs raw—harsh, ragged. Her pulse hammered fiercely behind closed eyes.

When she finally turned her head, blinking against the glare, she saw Layla standing just beyond the ruined jeep, frozen, outlined by flickering firelight, wide eyes reflecting the chaotic glow.

Beside Layla, Steven sat up slowly, pale-faced but gaze locked on Mariam—steady, unblinking. Neither spoke. They didn’t move. They stared.

Mariam let out a long, weary sigh, the sound heavy with exhaustion and relief, before she pushed herself up from the rough sand. Every muscle protested, aching with the strain of the moment, but she didn’t hesitate. With swift determination, she rushed to Steven’s side, dropping down beside him with urgency and careful precision as she began to check him over.

“You okay?” she asked breathlessly, her voice low but filled with concern.

Steven gave a weak nod, managing a small, tired smile that seemed to hold both reassurance and lingering fatigue. Almost without thinking, driven by instinct and need, he reached out and pulled her into a gentle hug—brief, fragile, and grounding.

But the moment his hand brushed against her side, he paused. His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face as his fingers met something slick and warm. He looked down slowly, frowning—then his eyes widened in shock.

His palm was smeared with bright red. Blood.

His breath hitched. “Wait—what...?” And then the panic came, fast and wild. “You’re bleeding,” he stammered, panic flooding his voice, cracking with raw fear. “Mitzi! You’re bleeding—this is bad, you need—”

Mariam followed his gaze downward to the red stain spreading across his palm. She touched the spot lightly with a trembling finger, then gave a tired shrug as if the injury was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

“Oh, I guess I am,” she said softly, voice weary but steady. “It’s just a graze. Nothing serious.”

Steven’s eyes darted around wildly, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest like a frantic drumbeat. “Just a graze? This looks bad. We have to get help. Right now. You can’t just—”

Before his worry could spiral further, Layla stepped forward, her movements smooth and practiced—calm and confident, like someone who had done this many times before. She pulled off her overshirt and pressed it firmly against Mariam’s side.

“Hold still,” Layla said quietly, her voice steady and soothing as she began wrapping the makeshift bandage tight around Mariam’s waist.

Steven’s hands trembled uncontrollably, breaths coming shallow and quick. He stared between Mariam and Layla, unable to stop the flood of worst-case scenarios crashing through his mind, each terrifying possibility spinning faster than he could contain.

Mariam exhaled softly, trying to anchor him with quiet reassurance. “See? I’ll be fine.”

But Steven shook his head, panic rising inside him like a gathering storm. “No. You’re bleeding. This isn’t fine. We need a doctor. What if it’s worse than it looks? What if you—Mariam, please—don’t do this to me.”

The sudden use of her name caught Mariam off guard. A slow, gentle smile tugged at her lips as she looked up at him, amusement glinting in her tired eyes. “That’s the first time you’ve called me ‘Mariam,’” she said softly, warmth threading through her exhaustion.

Steven swallowed hard, voice cracking with raw honesty. “I’m scared. You’re... important to me.”

Mariam’s smile softened, folding into something warmer and gentler. She began to rise slowly, steadying herself against the pull of dizziness. Steven immediately moved to support her, hovering close, his eyes never leaving her face, body taut and ready to catch her at the slightest falter as they started walking toward the jeep.

“I’m fine,” Mariam insisted, waving off the sudden wave of dizziness creeping over her. “Just… tired, that’s all.”

But her steps faltered; her foot caught on a jagged patch of uneven ground, and she stumbled.

Steven’s eyes snapped wide with alarm. “Mariam!”

He lunged without thinking, arms wrapping around her just in time to stop the fall. The shock of her weight against him made his knees buckle slightly, but he held firm, clutching her to his chest like something precious and breakable.

His heart was a riot in his chest—too fast, too loud. He couldn’t breathe past it. Every terrifying image that had flickered through his mind earlier came roaring back: blood, stillness, her face going slack.

He buried his face briefly into her hair, just for a second, inhaling sharply like he had to prove to himself she was still warm and real. “Mariam,” he whispered again, voice shaking, “Please don’t say you’re fine if you’re not.”

Her breath hitched—just slightly. Then she leaned back enough to look at him. “It’s just the adrenaline wearing off,” she said gently, voice quiet and slow. “Really, I’m okay.”

Steven didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched hers, still wide and rimmed with fear. One hand stayed firm on her waist; the other hovered at her back like he was afraid to let go even for a moment.

Up ahead, Layla climbed into the jeep without a word, her movements quick and clipped. The engine growled to life, a low, guttural sound that broke the quiet like a threat. Headlights flared on, slicing across the sand in twin beams, casting long, flickering shadows behind them.

She twisted in her seat, eyes locking on the two figures still standing frozen a few meters back—Steven cradling Mariam like she might shatter if he let her go.

Layla slammed her palm against the side of the door with a sharp, metallic thud. “Steven!” she shouted over the roar of the engine. “She’s not made of glass—get in the car!”

The words cracked through the fog of panic like a whip. Steven flinched visibly, blinking hard as if the sound had yanked him out of some distant place. His arms were still wrapped around Mariam, breath shallow, chest tight. For a moment, he didn’t seem to know how to move.

Then Mariam’s hand found his—quiet, steady. Her fingers closed around his with a gentle, grounding squeeze.

“She’s right,” she said softly, her voice a fragile thread of calm. A tired half-smile touched her lips, small but real. “Let’s go.”

Steven nodded numbly, still rattled but trying to gather himself. He shifted his grip on her, careful and slow, supporting more of her weight now, one arm securely around her waist. Together, they made their way toward the jeep across the shifting sand.

He helped Mariam into the back seat, his hands guiding her with meticulous care, as though each movement might hurt her if he wasn’t gentle enough. His eyes flicked down—once, then again—to the blood blooming through the overshirt wrapped around her side.

Then he climbed in after her, settling beside her, his hand never leaving hers.

The engine rumbled beneath them, a low growl vibrating up through the floor. Warmth spilled from the vents, colliding with the cold desert air still clinging to their skin. The headlights cut forward through the darkness like blades, carving a path through the sand as the jeep roared into motion.

Steven sat stiffly in the back seat, fingers still tightly wound around Mariam’s. His leg bounced restlessly, his free hand twitching as if unsure where to go. His breath came in uneven bursts, shallow and quick, like he couldn’t get enough air.

He kept looking down—at her face, at the tension in her shoulders, at the crimson stain that had begun to spread across Layla’s makeshift bandage. It felt wrong, all of it. Impossible.

He couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“We should go to a hospital,” he blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “You need stitches, fluids—something. That’s not a graze, it’s—God, Mariam, you were stumbling—”

Beside him, Mariam let out a soft, breathless laugh.

Steven turned to her, stunned. “What?”

“We’re not going to a hospital, Steven,” she said, the faintest smile on her lips. Her voice was quiet, but there was steel in it, bright and unshaken beneath the exhaustion. Her eyes, half-lidded, still gleamed with something fierce. “We’re going to Ammit’s tomb.”

Steven stared at her like she’d told him they were driving straight into a volcano. “I—what? No! That’s the opposite of what we should be doing! You’re bleeding! Why would we—”

“Because we’re running out of time,” Layla called from the front, hands tight on the wheel. She didn’t even look back.

Steven looked between them—first Layla, then Mariam—his mouth slightly open, eyes wide with disbelief. “Have you both gone mad?”

Mariam leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes for a moment as she breathed through the pain. “Maybe,” she murmured. “But I’m not wasting time getting patched up when the bastard’s out there digging up a death goddess.”

Steven stared at her again—at the way she sat so still, so composed, despite the sweat on her brow and the tremor in her fingers. Despite the blood and the pain and the way she was clearly holding herself together by sheer force of will.

“You’re both mental,” he muttered, sinking lower in his seat. His grip on her hand tightened slightly. “Absolutely barking.”

But still—he didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

THE SUN CREPT UP OVER THE HORIZON like a secret, bleeding rose across the endless sand. Its first fragile light stretched lazily over the dunes, spilling warmth like whispered promises onto the cold earth. The sky bloomed with soft hues, the delicate pinks melting into shimmering amber as the morning unfurled slowly, deliberately. The light slanted low and slashed through the desert haze, casting long, thin shadows that flickered and danced across the cracked windshield as the jeep tore recklessly across the undulating dunes.

Mariam sat rigid in the backseat, jaw clenched tight enough to taste the faint metallic tang of her own tension. One arm was braced firmly against the cool door, fingers digging into the metal for something steady, something solid, as the vehicle rocked and jolted relentlessly over uneven, treacherous terrain. 

Every bump, every sudden lurch, sent a fresh wave of discomfort rippling through her. Sweat clung stubbornly to her temple despite the brittle chill in the air, tiny beads gathering and tracing silent rivulets down her skin. Her breathing was tight and shallow beneath the constant rumble of the engine and the grinding roar of tires against sand.

At first, the pain had been just a dull, manageable throb—nothing she couldn’t grit through, nothing that demanded attention. But now—now it was a different beast altogether. It had deepened, growing hotter, sharper, more insistent. A relentless burn that curled and licked up her side like fire, coiling beneath her ribs, scorching and raw. 

The makeshift bandage Layla had tied hours ago was soaked through, damp, and dark with seeping blood. She could feel it—knew it, really—without even daring to glance down. 

She didn’t dare press a hand to it. Not while Steven was still watching her like she might shatter into a million fragile pieces at any moment.

She shifted slightly in her seat, a careful, almost imperceptible movement designed to seem casual, natural. It took everything she had not to wince out loud. Every jolt the jeep hit sent a fresh, jagged spike of pain through her core, tightening her chest and pulling at her breath. It was getting harder by the minute to keep her face still, to mask the ache curling cruelly beneath her skin.

Ahead of them, Layla sat silent and focused at the wheel, her eyes narrowed behind dark sunglasses that reflected the barren desert landscape. She scanned the horizon with hawk-like intensity, lips pressed into a thin line. The wind tossed strands of her dark hair erratically across her cheek, but she made no effort to brush them away. Her grip on the steering wheel was tight, white-knuckled, as though she were holding onto the vehicle and their fate with everything she had.

Steven sat beside Mariam, restless energy coiled in his posture. He glanced over at her every thirty seconds or so, his worry barely concealed beneath a thin veil of calm. His leg bounced uncontrollably, tapping the floor with anxious rhythm. His hands clenched and unclenched in his lap, a subtle sign of the tension knotting inside him.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked again, voice quiet and careful this time, trying not to sound like he’d already asked it five times in the last ten minutes.

Mariam nodded without turning her head, forcing herself to keep her gaze on the shifting sand outside the window. “I’m fine.”

But her voice was thinner than before, fragile at the edges. And she could feel the sweat beading along her spine now, cold and clammy, tracing a damp trail beneath the thin fabric of her shirt.

Steven frowned. He wasn’t buying it.

His eyes lingered on her profile—sharp cheekbones, tense jaw, the faint tremor of muscles beneath pale skin. Her hand had curled into a fist on her thigh, knuckles bone-white, and her shoulders were just a little too stiff, too rigid to be comfortable.

“You’re not blinking,” he said suddenly, voice low and steady.

Mariam let out a slow breath, deliberate and dry. “Didn’t realize that was a medical emergency.”

“You always blink when you lie,” he murmured, tone quiet but certain.

She snorted, the sound brittle in the heavy morning heat, a dry, sharp laugh that caught in her throat. “Now you’re keeping a blink tally? Laugh tally, blink tally… what’s next? Orgasms?”

Steven made a strangled, half-choked sound in the back of his throat, eyes going wide in startled embarrassment.

“I—what—no—blimey, Mariam—”

She smirked faintly, not looking at him but feeling the heat rise in her cheeks anyway. “Relax, Steven. I know how to distract you.”

His ears were burning. Absolutely on fire. Steven glanced toward the windshield, willing the desert horizon—endless and empty—to give him something to focus on besides the pounding in his chest and the fact that Mariam had just said the word orgasms like it was no big deal.

“You can’t just say things like that,” he muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair, voice shaking slightly. “People don’t just—say things like that.”

Mariam shifted again in her seat, biting back a sharp wince as the movement tugged cruelly at her side. “Sure they do. I do. Besides, I figured if I said something outrageous enough, you’d stop watching me like I’m about to keel over.”

Steven’s brows pinched together, worry sharpening the lines on his face. He looked at her again, the humor that had briefly softened his expression quickly melting back into concern. “You are about to keel over. You haven’t blinked in two minutes, you’re white as a sheet, and—sorry, but—if you flinch one more time when we hit a bump—”

“I’m not flinching.”

“You are flinching, love,” he murmured, his voice softer this time, almost a careful whisper carried on the dry desert air. “Like someone’s got a poker pressed right to your ribs.”

Mariam exhaled sharply and turned her gaze out the window, watching the sun climb higher, gilding the sand dunes in blinding, relentless gold. Heat shimmered and danced off the horizon, blurring the boundary between earth and sky. It was too beautiful, too peaceful, for the pain winding tighter and tighter through her side.

Steven leaned in a fraction, voice dropping even quieter. “Let me see it.”

“Nope.”

“Mariam—”

“No.”

Steven’s eyes darkened, the usual warmth replaced by a sharp edge. “Mariam, enough.” His voice dropped low, steady, no trace of teasing this time. “I’m not asking anymore. Let me see. Now.”

She swallowed hard, her stubbornness cracking under the weight of his seriousness. The desert sun seemed to pause with them, heat thick in the air but nothing as heavy as the silence stretching between them.

Her breath caught, muscles tense for one last fight she knew she couldn’t win.

“Okay.” The word was barely a whisper, but it was surrender.

Steven reached out carefully, his fingers gentle and tentative as they lifted the makeshift shirt bandage that covered the wound. The fabric was stained and slightly damp, but it clung stubbornly to Mariam’s skin beneath.

Mariam’s eyes flicked up at him but quickly darted away, refusing to meet his gaze. There was a stubbornness there, a silent plea to look away, to ignore the pain she still carried beneath his touch.

“See?” she said, voice tight but defiant, as if daring him to challenge her. “Not that bad.”

Steven sighed quietly, the weight of worry pressing heavier on his chest. He could see past her words—the ragged edges of the wound, the swollen, bruised skin around it, the dark dried blood that whispered of a harsher story than she was willing to tell.

“Mariam…” His voice softened, tinged with concern that wrapped around each word like a fragile thread. “You need a hospital. This can’t be left like this.”

She pressed the shirt back firmly against the wound, jaw set, eyes sharp and unwavering beneath the harsh desert sun. “No,” she said firmly. “We can’t waste any more time. Harrow’s likely already back at his dig site.”

Steven drew back slightly in the cramped car, uncertainty flickering across his face like a shadow passing over the dunes outside. The weight of their situation settled heavily between them, thick and unyielding, leaving no room for easy answers.

Mariam groaned softly, shifting uncomfortably in her seat as she pressed the damp shirt tighter against her side. The sharp sting beneath the fabric made her wince, but she forced herself to focus. “Speaking of which,” she said, voice strained but determined, “if he is, we’re gonna need Marc, yeah?”

Steven sighed heavily, his gaze dropping away from her to catch his own reflection in the grimy window. For a long, heavy moment, he simply stared—quiet, conflicted—before slowly turning back to meet her eyes, steady and firm. “No.”

Layla’s brow furrowed in the rearview mirror, her glance flickering toward Steven with clear confusion and concern.

Mariam’s frown deepened, disbelief sharp in her voice. “No?”

Steven ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his voice low but unwavering. “No. See, the thing is, we made a deal—Marc and I… That when he was done with Khonshu, he'd give me my life back.”

The words hung in the air between them like a thunderclap. Mariam’s frown deepened further, confusion swirling into something darker, colder. Her mind raced—how long had this been kept from her? What did it mean for everything they’d been through together? For all the times she’d relied on Marc’s strength, his presence beside her in the darkest moments? The very thought of losing him, or being shut out of such a decision, felt like a punch to the gut.

“A deal?” she echoed, voice trembling, raw with shock and hurt. “You made a deal to disappear from my life? And you didn’t think maybe I should’ve been told? Or included in that decision?” Her mouth fell open slightly, breath catching as the sting in her side mingled with the sharp ache blossoming in her chest.

Steven looked away, eyes clouded with regret as he struggled for the right words. His gaze drifted back to his reflection in the grimy window, where tired eyes stared back—an echo of the conflict raging inside. But in that reflection, almost imperceptible to anyone else, another face flickered alongside his own—Marc’s sharp eyes locked onto him, watching, judging. Only Steven could see it, a silent reminder of the battle beneath the surface.

Mariam muttered under her breath, bitter and low, laced with resentment and disbelief. “That fucking bastard… No, yeah. Of course that’s what he meant. ‘Things will get better,’ my ass.”

Steven glanced back at her, his eyes cautious, but edged with a firmness born from a tangled mix of frustration and hurt. “Well, you did say Marc had been shutting you out already, didn’t you?” he asked, his voice steady but careful, as if balancing on a fragile thread.

Mariam’s eyes flared suddenly, a blaze of anger igniting deep within them. The heat in her gaze was sharp and unforgiving. “Now you eavesdrop on our conversations?” The words struck like a slap, sudden and cutting through the tense silence. “Jesus Christ.”

Steven winced visibly, the impact of her accusation hitting harder than he’d anticipated. It wasn’t just the sharpness of the words, but the sting was deeper because he hadn’t meant to overhear their private talks. His shoulders sagged slightly under the weight of unspoken guilt.

His voice softened, dropping to a quiet murmur weighted with regret. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Mariam muttered something under her breath, a grumble of frustration that barely escaped her lips but filled the cramped space between them with a simmering heat. She shifted uncomfortably, her hand tightening into a fist on her lap.

Steven hesitated, searching her face for any sign of softening. The tension between them was thick enough to taste, like dust settling after a storm. “Maybe you should try to calm down a bit,” he suggested gently, hoping to defuse the rising storm.

Instead of easing, his words seemed to pour fuel onto a smoldering fire. Mariam’s eyes snapped back to him, sharp and fierce, flashing like blades caught in the sun. “When in the history of ever has anyone calmed down just because they were told to?” Her voice was sharp, cutting through the air with unmistakable edge.

Her words hung heavily between them, electric and raw, sparking a moment of silence where neither dared to speak.

Then, suddenly, a sharp gasp escaped her lips—a sudden break in the tension. She clutched her side with a grimace, pain crashing through her anger like a relentless wave breaking over jagged rocks. Her breath hitched, and for a moment her world narrowed down to the searing ache beneath her ribs.

Steven’s concern snapped forward instantly, his posture shifting from defensive to protective. His voice was urgent, firm, yet filled with tenderness. “Okay, that’s enough. You can’t be stressing yourself out right now.”

But Mariam shook her head stubbornly, despite the wince that crossed her face like a shadow of pain. Her jaw set with fierce determination. “I’m not stressing me out—Marc is stressing me out.” There was a biting edge to her tone, laced with sarcasm and defiance. “Tell him he can expect divorce papers post haste.”

Steven’s gaze flickered once more to his reflection in the grimy window, where Marc’s sharp eyes surfaced—watchful, intense, guilty… a silent witness to the turmoil swirling beneath the surface.

Turning back, Steven softened, reaching out gently to steady Mariam as she grappled with pain and anguish. Despite the bitterness in her voice, he caught the faint flicker of humor beneath her grimace—a half-joke wrapped tightly in pain and defiance, a fragile shield against the vulnerability she refused to show.

Chapter Text

THE HARSH DESERT SUN FILTERED WEAKLY through the thin canvas of one of Harrow’s ramshackle tents. Inside, the air was thick and still, heavy with the scent of dust, sweat, and something faintly metallic—blood, dried and sharp.

Layla appeared at the tent’s entrance, carrying a battered kit of medical supplies that looked like it had seen better days. She set it down gently on a dusty crate, the sound sharp in the stillness. “Found some sutures, Tylenol, and lidocaine spray,” she announced, voice steady but calm, the kind of calm that held tight control in a storm.

Steven looked up from where he had been watching Mariam with a mix of concern and cautious hope. His voice was hesitant but hopeful, tinged with a fragile optimism. “Is that… good?”

Layla let out a short laugh, a quiet exhale of relief that barely disturbed the heavy air. “Yeah. It’s good.” Her eyes flicked toward Mariam, who was already lowering herself slowly onto one of the creaky cots pushed against the tent’s frame. 

Her face was pale, the strain visible in the tight set of her jaw and the faint lines around her eyes, but there was still a stubborn spark burning deep within her gaze.

Mariam sighed, a rough, rasping sound as she settled onto the cot. “Alright. Let’s just get it over with.” The words were quiet, but firm—an attempt to steel herself against the pain she knew was coming.

Layla knelt beside her sister, pulling a worn flask from the kit and pressing it into Mariam’s hand. “Here. Take a sip. Then these.” She gently dropped a couple of Tylenol tablets into Mariam’s palm.

Mariam accepted the flask with a tired nod, lifting it carefully and swallowing down the water in small, deliberate sips. Her throat was dry and rough, each swallow seeming to scrape against the scratchy dryness that had settled there. She popped the tablets into her mouth and swallowed again, the medicine sliding down like a promise of relief… at least some.

Without wasting time, Layla uncapped the small bottle of lidocaine spray and held it close to the ragged wound on Mariam’s side. Mariam’s body tensed instantly, every nerve alert and bracing for the sting.

The spray hit first with a sharp, burning sting that made her eyes scrunch shut in surprise. It was sudden and biting, like a flare against the rawness of her injury, cutting through the dust and dryness that clung to her skin. But then, slowly, the pain began to dull, a cool numbness spreading outward from the wound’s jagged edges, softening the ache beneath.

Layla set the spray down with careful hands and looked up, her eyes searching Mariam’s face with a quiet concern that spoke volumes. “You ready?”

Mariam swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on a crooked tear in the tent’s canvas overhead. Her jaw clenched tight, muscles coiling as she drew in a shaky breath, willing herself to stay still, to endure. She nodded.

Layla’s hands hovered briefly before she picked up the needle, steady and precise but gentle. She threaded the thin black suture through the needle’s eye and then, with a careful, practiced motion, began stitching the torn flesh together.

A soft wince escaped Layla’s lips as the needle caught on a particularly tough spot, the slight resistance sending a ripple of discomfort through her. Mariam bit down on her lip, the ache pressing through the numbing spray like a faint whisper of pain, reminding her she was still alive.

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, drawing slow, deliberate breaths deep into her lungs. The world around her seemed to narrow until all she could hear was the quiet scrape of thread sliding through skin, the rustle of fabric shifting with their movements. Then, unexpectedly, the steady, warmth of a hand closing gently over hers was felt.

Her eyelids fluttered open, and through the haze of discomfort she met Steven’s eyes; soft, steady, filled with quiet reassurance.

His voice came low, almost a whisper meant only for her. “It’ll be over soon.”

Mariam managed a small, grateful smile, squeezing his hand back gently. The sting and ache still lingered beneath the surface, but the presence beside her made the pain a little easier to bear, a weight lifted by shared strength.

The seconds stretched, measured in the rhythm of needle prick and whispered breaths. Outside, the desert sun blazed relentlessly, casting its unyielding light over the barren landscape. But here, inside the fragile sanctuary of that battered tent, time slowed. In the quiet communion of healing and hope, there was a moment of peace—born not from the absence of pain, but from the strength found in standing together.

𓂀

The dim light inside the tent flickered unevenly from a cluster of hanging bulbs, casting jagged shadows that danced across the rough crates and scattered equipment. The air was thick and stale, tinged faintly with dust and the metallic tang of dried blood. Steven moved cautiously, eyes sharp as he scanned the cluttered space for anything useful.

His fingers brushed over a row of flashlights lined up neatly on a metal table, their smooth surfaces gleaming oddly against the canvas walls worn thin by desert winds. He grabbed a couple, weighing them thoughtfully in his hands, their cold hardness a stark contrast to the oppressive heat outside.

“You look scared.”

Steven straightened, muscles tensing, and replied flatly, “I’m not.”

Marc’s reflection in the table smirked, though the eyes behind it were sharp and calculating. “Well, you should be. Without Khonshu and Nephthys, there are no more suits, no more healing, no more power... no more Mariam saving your ass.”

Steven shrugged, dropping a flashlight into his battered backpack. “Yeah, no more you, I thought. It’s what you said, innit? But believing anything that comes out of your mouth just shows what a plonker I am.”

He knelt and grabbed a water flask from the dusty floor, tilting it up—and the faint clink of emptiness mocked the dryness of the desert beyond the tent.

Marc’s softened then, laced with something almost like regret. “Look, I wish I could just disappear, I really do. But unfortunately, I’m still here. And if you’re going to go through with this, you gotta be smart — for Mariam and Layla’s sake. I’ve been in situations like this before.”

Steven’s eyes dropped to his own fractured reflection again, the shards catching bits of his face—eyes tired, jaw set. “So have I. It’s the same body, innit? It’s in there somewhere. Muscle memory and all that.”

The warped table distorted the shaking of the head. “Yeah, I’m not sure it works that way... Just—”

Steven cut him off with a wave of his hand. “You know what? Whatever.” He stood and started toward the tent’s flap, the weight of the moment pressing on his shoulders.

Marc’s voice followed him, quieter but firm. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Steven paused, his back still to the reflection, then turned with a firmness that didn’t waver. “I know I’m not alone. I know I’m bloody not alone. I’ve got Mariam. She’s got my back—and Layla, too.” He stepped toward the exit, the coarse fabric of the flap brushing against his hand.

Then, sharp and sudden, Marc’s voice cut through the air again. “Are you in love? Huh? Are you in love with my wife?”

Steven stopped dead, spun around, eyes locked onto the jagged reflection through a cracked mirror propped unsteadily against a wooden stake,. “I appreciate your concern, mate. I really do—”

Marc interrupted, low and dangerous. “You lay one more finger on her—”

Steven raised a hand to silence him, voice cool but final. “But we’ve got it from here.”

As he turned away for good, Marc’s voice dropped to a deadly whisper, a promise laced with warning. “I swear to you, Steven. I swear, I will—”

Without looking back, Steven smirked, the corner of his mouth curling with dark humor. “If I need a recipe for a protein shake or something, I’ll call you.”

Marc’s voice cracked with equal parts frustration and grim amusement. “—I’ll throw us off a cliff!”

𓂀

The tent was dim, lit only by the slanting midday sun filtering through a rip in the canvas overhead. Dust motes drifted lazily in the golden shaft of light, suspended like flecks of memory. The air inside was stifling, heavy with heat and the faint, lingering scent of canvas, sand, and something older—earth and stone and time. 

Mariam and Layla moved slowly, carefully, weaving their way among the disordered tangle of crates and scattered supplies that littered the ground. Each step was deliberate, their eyes flicking from box to box, scanning for anything that might still be usable—water, bandages, anything that could still be called alive and good to last.

Layla’s eyes slid toward Mariam, her gaze sharp beneath furrowed brows. The question left her lips almost gently, but there was a tautness beneath it, a thread of worry drawn tight. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Mariam glanced at her, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She lifted a hand to brush a stray strand of hair from her cheek, fingers grazing the side of her face as if the motion itself might steady her. 

“Yeah. I’m fine,” she said, the words simple, practiced, worn smooth from use. “You patched me up good.” Her voice tilted at the edges, teasing now, trying to ease the concern out of the air between them. “Besides, isn’t it supposed to be the older sister who worries? Not the younger one?”

Layla huffed a laugh, a warm, rich sound that bounced lightly off the close walls of canvas. “With us? That’s never been the way of things.”

They stepped out of the tent together, the flap lifting with a soft rasp behind them. The desert heat met them like a wall, thick and staggering, curling off the sand in waves that shimmered in the distance. The brightness outside was nearly blinding after the dim interior, forcing them to squint against the sun’s fierce glare. Ahead, the sandstone mountain loomed high and wide, the carved face of the dig site etched into its side like a waiting mouth.

Layla’s expression shifted as she took it in—eyes softening, gaze turning inward for a moment as something old stirred behind her eyes. “Remember how you used to get into trouble on digs when we were kids?” she murmured, her tone threaded with nostalgia. “Coming with Baba to these sites? You were always climbing on things, poking around in places you weren’t supposed to.”

Mariam gave a quiet huff of a laugh, the sound escaping her like a breath of warmth. “Yeah, I remember,” she said, the corners of her mouth lifting. “You were always the one trying to keep me in line. All serious, all rules. The little goody two-shoes, telling me not to get into trouble.”

Layla smirked, a familiar glint lighting up her face. “I was the responsible one. Someone had to be. You were convinced you could find a secret chamber all by yourself. You’d disappear for hours, and everyone would be in a panic trying to find you.”

Mariam shook her head, the movement small but amused. “And you’d be there waiting to scold me. All prim and proper, arms crossed like a schoolteacher, lecturing me about ‘appropriate behavior on a historical site.’”

They shared a look then—a long, quiet smile passed between them that said more than either needed to say. It was the kind of look only siblings could share: a smile woven from years of chaos, of late nights and whispered plans, of scraped knees and laughter and too many goodbyes.

Layla’s voice dipped lower, her tone conspiratorial. “Do you remember that one time at the Nile site? You tried to climb that crumbling wall to get a better look at the hieroglyphs and nearly took a tumble. Baba caught you just in time.”

Mariam’s cheeks flushed faintly, but her grin widened. “God, yeah. I thought I was invincible back then. Like nothing could touch me.”

Layla let out a soft, breathy laugh. “And then there was the time we found that mummified cat in a side chamber. That was the first time I ever cried on a dig.”

Mariam’s steps slowed slightly, her brow creasing with the weight of the memory. “I remember that,” she said softly. “You got all quiet. Just sat there staring at it for ages. I thought you were gonna freak out or throw up or something.”

Layla rolled her eyes at herself, but the smile she gave was gentle. “It wasn’t just any cat. It was so small. So perfectly wrapped. Like it had been someone’s everything. It made everything feel real for the first time—not just bones and artifacts. It was… someone’s story.”

Mariam reached out and gave her arm a squeeze, fingers warm and sure. “You’ve always been a softie. No matter how tough you act.”

Layla bumped her lightly with her shoulder, the motion easy, familiar. The two of them walked on, their feet crunching over dry stone and scattered gravel, each step drawing them nearer to the sheer sandstone rise ahead. The heat radiated off the rock like a living thing, pulsing, ancient, watching.

They fell into silence, but it was a silence that felt worn-in, comfortable—like the hush between breaths rather than the absence of sound.

Eventually, Layla’s voice broke the quiet again, softer this time. “I still can’t believe we’re actually about to descend into the temple Baba always wanted to find. It feels like... like we’re finishing something he started.”

Mariam reached over and took her sister’s hand without a word, fingers curling around hers. There was strength in the gesture, and something else too—memory, grief, love, and the kind of shared resolve that no time or distance could undo. “Me too,” she said quietly.

For just a moment, the weight of the desert, the ache in Mariam’s side, the danger lurking ahead—all of it faded. All that remained was the steady rhythm of their footsteps, the feel of Layla’s hand in hers, and the truth that they were not alone. Whatever came next, they would walk toward it together.

Chapter Text

THE SANDSTONE CLIFFS ROSE UP around them, towering and silent, their golden faces glowing softly in the early light of dawn. The desert air was still cool but carried a dry heat that promised to grow with the sun’s climb. The dig site lay quiet, almost reverent now, as if holding its breath in the absence of Harrow’s crew, who had long since packed up and vanished into the shifting sands. Loose ropes, frayed at the edges, snapped and flapped sporadically in the dry breeze, sending soft whispers against the rock, a sound like faint echoes from another time.

Mariam and Layla moved along the narrow ridge with steady, unhurried efficiency, their boots crunching softly on the sun-baked earth. There was no need for words between them—their steps fell into an unspoken rhythm, the silence filled only by the subtle sounds of their work and the desert around them. It was as if they shared one mind, one purpose, honed by years of experience and countless expeditions.

Their hands moved with practiced ease—checking the knots on ropes, tightening bolts securely anchored into the rock, testing the tension with careful precision. Every motion was fluid and sure, born from long familiarity, a dance perfected over time. The rising sun had just begun to crest the rocky horizon, spilling golden light that gilded the edges of the tomb’s freshly uncovered entrance, turning dust into sparkles, and casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across the cracked earth.

Steven stood a few paces behind, watching with a mixture of admiration and disbelief. His eyes took in every detail: the quick, confident way Mariam handed Layla the carabiner before she even had to ask for it; the subtle, almost imperceptible nod Layla gave in response, her fingers deftly clipping it in without a single word. It was a silent conversation, spoken in glances and movements, a language Steven could only guess at but felt privileged to witness.

“It’s like they’ve done this a hundred times before,” he thought, breath catching a little as he realized how perfectly in sync they were, the way two parts of a whole moved effortlessly together.

Layla finished tightening her harness, the straps clicking snug into place. She turned toward Steven, her expression amused and slightly conspiratorial. “I’ll head down first,” she said, clipping herself into the rope with practiced ease. “I’ll belay you both from the platform.”

Steven blinked, confusion flickering across his face. “Belay?”

She shot him a look that mixed disbelief and amusement. “You really don’t know?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “I mean—context clues, right? It’s like a ropey safety thing?”

Layla shook her head, grinning broadly. “Still not sure if you’re messing with me, Grant.”

Before Steven could reply, Layla slipped smoothly over the edge of the ridge, the rope hissing softly through the belay device as she began her descent into the shadowed entrance below.

Mariam let out a soft laugh, brushing the dust from her hands as she turned back toward Steven. “She likes you,” she said, her voice carrying a warmth that made the desert breeze feel almost gentle. “That’s rare… She never really cared for Marc.”

Steven opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak, Mariam dropped to one knee beside him. Her hands moved deftly, adjusting the straps of his harness with careful precision. Her fingers brushed lightly against his trousers, tightening the webbing around his thighs, double-checking every knot as if it was the most important task in the world. The unexpected contact sent a small, electric thrill through him—brief and disarming.

He looked down at her face, noticing the quiet focus there—the way her brows knitted slightly in concentration, the soft curve of her lips pressed into a line of determination. The wind tugged playfully at her curls, and in that moment, she looked utterly at home in this harsh, ancient landscape—as if she belonged here, as if the desert and the rocks were a part of her soul.

And without thinking, without planning or hesitation, the words spilled out of him, raw and true. “I feel like I’ve been waiting for this my whole life.”

Mariam froze for a moment, her gaze lifting to meet his, eyebrows arching in surprise.

“I mean the—the adventure part,” Steven hurried to clarify, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Not, like, you kneeling in front of me or—oh god, that came out wrong—”

She was already laughing, low and warm, the sound wrapping around him like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Steven.”

“I meant it innocently!” he insisted, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.

Mariam shook her head, still chuckling, her eyes sparkling with something tender and amused.

She straightened slowly, wincing a little as she braced herself against a rock, then stepped closer to adjust the tabs on his hips. Her face was suddenly very near his—close enough that he caught the faint scent of earth and sun-warmed skin mingling with the subtle, fresh scent of her hair. Her fingers tugged the straps tighter, then hesitated as her brow furrowed with a flicker of discomfort.

“You okay?” he asked, voice soft but filled with concern, watching her closely.

She smiled, a brief flicker of pain crossing her features before she smirked. “Yeah,” she said lightly. “It’s just… Marc’s a twat.”

Steven snorted a laugh, the tension between them breaking like a gentle wave. They shared a brief, easy moment—a fragile bubble of lightness in the middle of the desert’s harshness.

Mariam stepped back, eyes flicking to a buckle that wasn’t quite tight enough. She reached forward again, fingers poised to adjust it.

Before her hand could settle, Steven’s breath hitched deep in his chest. His heart hammered fiercely, an urgent, beautiful rhythm that seemed to echo in every vein.

Without hesitation, one hand curved gently around her waist, holding her with a steady warmth that felt like home after a long absence. His other hand rose slowly, fingertips tracing the soft line of her cheek with reverence, before tucking a loose curl behind her ear. His thumb lingered, brushing softly over her skin, as if memorizing every delicate contour.

He searched her eyes, vulnerable and open, his own shimmering with a depth far beyond nervousness. No words were spoken; none were needed.

Then, with the gentlest motion, he leaned in—his lips barely brushing hers at first, soft and tentative, as if asking permission in a language older than speech itself.

Mariam’s breath caught sharply. For a brief heartbeat, she hesitated—then melted into the kiss, her hands rising to cradle the back of his neck, fingers threading into the warmth of his hair like a lifeline.

Steven’s hold tightened just slightly—not to bind, but to anchor them both in this fragile, shared moment of surrender.

Their lips moved slowly together—tender, searching, conveying the weight of every unspoken feeling that had built between them. The faint roughness of his stubble against her cheek sent a shiver racing down her spine, mixing with the warmth spreading through her body like wildfire.

She breathed him in—the earthiness, the realness, the aching familiarity—and allowed herself to be swept away by the simple truth of being close, of being here, of being now.

Around them, the world softened—the towering golden cliffs, the taut ropes, the shadowed tomb all fading into a shimmering haze of sunlight and heat, leaving only the pulse of their connection, steady and sure and infinite.

When they finally parted, breathless and wide-eyed, neither spoke a word.

Mariam’s fingers lingered softly on his neck, reluctant to let go. Steven’s hands remained where they were—one resting gently at her waist, the other cradling her face, as if holding the moment itself, fragile and precious.

A sharp tug on the rope beside them—the familiar, brisk signal from Layla—pulled them back from their reverie.

Mariam blinked, stepping back slowly, her fingers slipping from his skin with a soft, reluctant sigh.

“We should go,” she whispered, her voice thick with all the things left unsaid.

Steven nodded, voice low and charged with quiet promise. “Right behind you.”

As she clipped in and began her slow descent into the tomb’s shadowed mouth, he stood still for a long, still moment—heart racing, lips tingling—wrapped in the warmth of a kiss that felt like the beginning of everything.

𓂀

The rope hissed softly as it lowered her, the ridges of sandstone passing slowly beside her shoulders. The air grew cooler with every foot she descended—thick with the scent of dust and history. Mariam kept her hands light on the rope, letting Layla control the speed. Her eyes lifted once, catching a last glimpse of the morning sky, pale and gold above the rim of the tomb’s shaft.

Then her boots touched down on ancient sand. The moment was silent.

She stayed still for a breath, the way a worshipper might pause before stepping into a holy place. Slowly, she reached for the harness clips at her hips and unclipped herself with quiet, methodical ease, her fingers brushing the metal hooks with reverent calm. The desert dust settled softly around her, disturbed only by the swish of rope and the faint shifting of Layla’s weight.

The beam of her flashlight flicked on with a click. Its glow sliced through the dimness, and Mariam’s breath caught in her throat.

There they stood—colossal sandstone jackals, carved directly into the walls on either side of the tomb’s entrance. Weathered by time but still fearsome in stature, they loomed like sentinels guarding something sacred. Their jaws were open just slightly, teeth bared in eternal warning. Their flanks bore faint inscriptions now worn down by centuries of wind and sun.

Mariam stepped closer, unable to resist. The light traced over the ridges of the nearest statue’s snarling snout, catching on a glint of quartz embedded in its eye socket. It shimmered like a tear caught in stone. The air was heavier here—thicker, more ancient. Every breath felt like it had to pass through time.

She angled her light down—And froze.

There, in the sand at the base of the left jackal, drawn with the tip of a finger, was the familiar curve of a scarab. Small. Simple. Just a few lines and indentations. But she knew it instantly.

Her chest tightened. She turned her head slowly.

Layla stood a few paces off, brushing sand from her gloves. She didn’t say anything—didn’t have to. Her gaze met Mariam’s for only a second before flicking away again, chin lifting, posture brisk. But that moment—that flicker—held everything.

Mariam’s lips lifted in a slow, aching smile. Bittersweet. Full of gratitude and longing all at once.

She stepped forward, kneeling briefly beside the scarab shape. Her fingers hovered over it but didn’t touch, unwilling to disturb the quiet offering. Then, just as gently, she rose again and approached the doorway that gaped between the jackals, where the stone gave way to blackness.

“I never get used to it,” Layla said softly behind her, the words carried low and reverent.

Mariam nodded, eyes forward. “It’s like the air changes.”

Layla stepped beside her, their shoulders nearly touching. She raised her flashlight, its beam cutting into the dark, illuminating more ancient stone—painted images just visible along the threshold. Jackals again, but smaller now, walking in pairs beside what looked like offerings. Gold leaf still shimmered faintly under the dust.

A sharp thud echoed through the chamber—loud, abrupt, and painfully human.

Both Mariam and Layla spun around, flashlights swinging in unison, just in time to see a flurry of limbs hit the sand hard. Steven lay sprawled in an awkward heap at the bottom of the shaft, a thin puff of dust lifting around him like a sigh.

Mariam’s eyes flew wide. “Steven!”

She rushed forward, boots kicking up sand as she dropped to one knee beside him. He was on his back, blinking dazedly at the ceiling, breath coming in shallow wheezes.

“Are you okay?” she asked urgently, already reaching for his arm, her other hand hovering over his chest as if afraid he might have broken something.

He coughed once, grimaced, then forced a crooked smile through his labored breath. “Yeah. I’m aces. Yeah.”

Mariam helped him sit upright, brushing sand from his jacket. “Aces? You just fell twenty feet like a sack of bricks.” She stared at him in disbelief. “You were supposed to wait for the signal.”

He winced as he adjusted his weight, flashing her an apologetic look. “Yeah. Well. Marc had other plans.”

Mariam’s brow furrowed instantly, worry flashing across her face. “What do you mean, other plans —?”

But before she could finish the question, Steven’s eyes widened behind his glasses. His attention shifted past her, drawn like a magnet to the twin sandstone jackals flanking the tomb’s entrance.

“Oh, wow…” he breathed, voice suddenly hushed with wonder. “ Look at you. ”

Mariam turned, her flashlight tracing the same path as his awestruck gaze. The light shimmered along the snarling lines of the statues’ muzzles, illuminating every carved muscle, every sacred inscription worn into their flanks. The jackals glared down with the weight of judgment and eternity.

Mariam’s flashlight beam flickered gently over the weathered faces of the statues, casting long, wavering shadows that danced along the ancient stone walls. “Aren’t they gorgeous? Just been standing guard for centuries,” she said softly, her voice carrying a quiet reverence as she let her light linger on the cracked, moss-grown carvings.

Steven’s grin grew wider, his eyes still fixed on the towering jackals looming silently in the gloom. “Right? I mean, if they just sprang to life right now and asked me some ancient riddle for passage, I’d be thrilled. Even if I didn’t understand a word.”

Mariam let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head as she swept her flashlight around the small, echoing chamber. 

“I’d shit myself, but I’d be thrilled,” Steven added, laughing quietly at his own admission.

She gave him a pointed look that was half amusement, half warning. “Don’t put it past them. This is Ammit we’re talking about—the Devourer of the Dead. Anything’s possible in her realm.”

The words settled between them with a faint chill that crept along Steven’s spine, but he pushed the unease down, forcing a lightness back into his voice as Mariam’s gaze shifted away, settling on something near the ground.

Steven glanced downward and caught sight of a small symbol drawn delicately in the sand—the unmistakable scarab, traced carefully by a finger. The lines were soft but deliberate, the emblem glowing faintly in the flashlight’s beam.

He frowned, tilting his light closer. “What’s this?”

Mariam turned toward him, a small, tender smile brushing her lips, as if the symbol was a private memory she carried with her. “Layla did it,” she said simply.

Layla nodded quietly beside them, brushing dust from her gloves with a slow, steady motion. “Yeah. It’s for our father.”

Mariam’s eyes softened as she looked around the tomb’s entrance—the heavy stone blocks steeped in history and memory, every crack and crevice a silent witness to ages long past. “He would’ve loved to be here,” she murmured.

Steven’s smile deepened, easy and warm. “Oh yeah? Big history buff, is he?”

Layla chuckled softly, the sound light but edged with something deeper. “Oh, so much worse than that. He was an archaeologist on a mission.”

Without hesitation, Layla stepped forward, her movements steady and sure as she led them deeper into the tomb’s cool, shadowed passageways. Mariam reached out and tapped Steven gently on the shoulder, signaling him to follow without a word.

Mariam’s flashlight swept upward, illuminating the faded paintings that adorned the ceiling—ancient figures and gods whose colors had long since dulled but whose presence still hummed with quiet power. The hallway stretched before them, rough-hewn and narrow, inviting and ominous all at once.

“Yeah,” Mariam said softly, her voice tinged with a mixture of pride and sorrow. “Except to him, it was more than just history. It was a dream. One worth dying for.”

Her words lingered, heavy with meaning. She paused, swallowing hard as the weight of the past settled upon her like dust.

Layla’s voice broke the silence, quiet but certain. “And he did.”

Steven’s head snapped toward Layla, then back to Mariam, his expression shifting from curiosity to something softer, more sympathetic. He stepped closer and placed a gentle hand on Mariam’s arm, grounding her with quiet support.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, voice low and sincere.

Mariam met his gaze with a wry, almost bittersweet smile. “Yeah,” she replied, the edges of her mouth twitching upward in a small, rueful curve. “It happens. I mean... we all die, eventually.”

Steven glanced back toward Layla for a moment before turning his attention fully to Mariam again. 

A small, hopeful smile curved his lips, warm and genuine. “I bet he’d be positively beaming right now, seeing you two here. Standing in the proof of it all.”

Mariam’s eyes shimmered, reflecting the faint light as she absorbed his words, “Yeah,” she smiled at him. “I bet he would.”

For a moment, the heavy past seemed a little lighter, held gently between the present and the memories they carried.

Chapter Text

THEY MOVED DEEPER INTO THE TOMB, their flashlights slicing through the thick, stagnant dark, beams sweeping slowly over walls choked with centuries of dust. The air was dry and heavy, the silence around them a suffocating hush broken only by the soft crunch of their footsteps on ancient sand. Shadows shifted with every step, growing longer, bending strangely along the narrowing passage. Then, without warning, the walls pulled away, and they stepped into a chamber that seemed to exhale its own breathless stillness.

The room was circular, carved entirely from honeyed sandstone, the color pale and ghostlike in the flashlight beams. The air inside was unexpectedly cold—a biting contrast to the scorching heat outside the tomb's mouth. Six archways yawned around them, evenly spaced, cut into the walls like open mouths waiting to swallow.

Layla’s eyes flicked sharply from one tunnel to the next, body tense. Her fingers flexed around the grip of her light. “It’s a maze.”

Steven, already turning slowly in place, had stars in his eyes. “It’s a-maze-ing,” he murmured, clearly more enchanted than concerned, the joke tumbling out in a breath of reverence.

Layla didn’t even blink. She gave him a flat look, unimpressed. “No, like… there are six paths.”

Steven paused mid-spin. “Oh—yeah, yeah, yeah. Right. Six paths.” He nodded distractedly, still clearly more taken with the hieroglyphs dancing across the chamber walls than with the implications of the architecture. “Right. Got it. Maze.”

Mariam, a pace or two behind, made a sound low in her throat—half a scoff, half a laugh. Fond, if slightly exasperated. She stepped further in, her boots leaving shallow prints in the undisturbed sand, her gaze sweeping the room with a scholar’s quiet intent.

Then she stopped.

A flicker of light had bounced back at her. A glint. Sharp. Unnatural.

She frowned, eyebrows pulling together, and slowly lowered herself into a crouch. The grit of stone pressed cold against her knee through her pants. Her fingers brushed lightly through the top layer of sand, careful, precise—then curled around something small and metallic.

A bullet casing. Still faintly warm.

Her pulse jumped, thudding once, hard, against her ribs.

She turned it over in her fingers, frowning deeper. “What would they be shooting at?” she murmured, not really expecting an answer, the thought drifting from her lips like a thread unraveling.

A soft shuffling sound caught her attention. She looked back.

Steven had dropped to a crouch in front of a low, square stone in the exact center of the chamber, his flashlight propped beside him. A veil of sandy dust coated the surface, dulling whatever had once been polished and proud. His fingertips moved carefully through the grains, brushing them away with reverent care, as though he feared disturbing something sacred.

“This whole structure is a symbol,” he whispered, a hush of awe in his voice that stilled even the air.

Layla came up behind him and leaned over his shoulder. Her brow furrowed as her eyes narrowed, tracking the lines beneath the stone’s surface. “That’s the Eye of Horus,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” Steven breathed, angling his flashlight upward.

The beam struck the ceiling—flat stone at first, then suddenly alive with light. The hieroglyphic lines reflected perfectly, the image above completing itself like a puzzle. The Eye bloomed overhead in pale, ethereal radiance, projected across the stone like a constellation drawn in ghostlight.

Steven rose to his feet slowly, his eyes never leaving the ceiling. “It’s the royal symbol of protection,” he said, voice quiet and full of wonder. “In the afterlife.”

Layla turned in a slow circle, her own light arcing across the chamber, catching faint carvings, subtle ridges, the symmetrical brilliance of the structure’s design. “I mean… the resources to build this place. The engineering. The design…” Her voice trailed off, reverent and stunned.

Mariam’s gaze swept upward. Then she looked down again, a breath catching in her throat. She placed a hand gently on the edge of the stone—cool, solid—and felt something ancient snap into place in her mind. Her lips parted slightly, and then she smiled, a quiet curl of pride in the corner of her mouth.

“Her final Avatar was a pharaoh.”

Layla inhaled sharply, the surprise clear in the sound. Her expression shifted. “That makes sense. That actually makes sense.”

Steven let out a delighted little gasp, eyes sparkling. “A bloody pharaoh. That’s brilliant.”

Mariam’s gaze drifted back down to the stone. She lowered her hand, fingers brushing lightly along the familiar shape—the Eye, carefully etched. Her fingertip followed the line slowly, tracing the ancient grooves like a prayer. “Do you think it’s a map?”

Steven tilted his head, eyes narrowing with thought. “Right. So… the Eye of Horus is also the symbol of the mind, yeah?” He held up a hand, counting silently on his fingers as he spoke. “It represents the six senses—six points.”

He pointed to the parts in turn, each movement precise, almost ceremonial. “You’ve got the eyebrow. That’s thought. The pupil—sight. This one here’s hearing. Smell. Touch.” His hand hovered over the last curve, tracing its long, elegant spiral. “And this long line here ending in a spiral… that’s the tongue.”

Mariam nodded slowly, something dawning behind her eyes. “Avatars are the voices of the gods they serve…”

Steven looked at her then. Met her eyes. The air between them stilled as the realization settled in.

They chose the final passage—the tongue, Steven had called it. The voice.

The corridor narrowed almost immediately, forcing them to walk single file, their shoulders brushing stone as the walls drew closer still. They had to angle their bodies, sidestepping in some places just to move forward. The air was stale—dry in a way that seemed to cling to their throats, untouched for centuries, the stillness pressing in from all sides. Every breath felt borrowed.

Dust blanketed the floor in a thick layer, softening their footfalls until even the slightest scuff sounded swallowed, like walking through the quietest part of a dream. Their flashlights cut narrow cones through the dark, beams flickering faintly over carved stone, broken pottery, remnants of a world long buried.

And then—without warning—the path opened.

The stone corridor widened into a chamber.

They stepped through the threshold with caution, flashlights raised and sweeping, hearts already quickening with the awareness that something had changed. The darkness here was dense, waiting. But the light peeled it back, inch by inch—revealing stone walls cloaked in hieroglyphs, painted scenes that stretched from floor to ceiling. The images were faded with time, the colors muted by age, but enough remained to see how vibrant they must have been. Reds, golds, and deep blues. Figures and gods. Thrones and offerings. A story told in shadow.

But it wasn’t the murals that froze them where they stood.

It was the figures.

A full row of mummified bodies.

Standing.

Upright.

Unmoving.

Each one emerged from its own alcove—hollowed recesses carved with precision directly into the stone walls. They leaned slightly forward, as if stepping toward the room’s center, arrested mid-movement. Arms bound tightly across their chests, linen wrapped with ritualistic care, now browned with age. Hollow eye sockets stared out through the dim light, empty yet somehow watching.

The air grew heavier just being among them.

Steven’s breath caught audibly in his throat. “Oh, wow.”

Layla took a single step forward, her voice quiet, awed. “Heka priests.”

Mariam’s eyes were already climbing the mural behind them, following the lines of paint, the story embedded in stone. A regal figure sat at the center—clearly a pharaoh, proud and commanding in gold and lapis regalia. Flanking the throne were three robed figures, each one bearing a tall staff, heads bowed slightly in deference.

“They would’ve been entombed here to protect the pharaoh,” Mariam said softly, the weight of history in her voice. “In life. And in death.”

Steven’s brow furrowed faintly as he turned in place, gaze flicking from mural to mummy. “What the heck’s a heka?”

Mariam cast a glance over her shoulder at him, eyes gleaming with mirth. “I thought you were an encyclopedia of ancient Egypt?”

Steven turned red immediately. “I’m not!” he said, flustered. “I—I never said that—I mean, I read a lot, but that’s different—”

She laughed, the sound breaking the tension like a warm knife through ice. Even in this tomb of silence, it rang gently—alive.

Layla smiled too, the corners of her mouth twitching. “They were sorcerers of their time,” she offered, her voice quieter now, respectful. “Magicians. Spiritual protectors. Kind of like priestly bodyguards. Very elite.”

Mariam gave a small nod, stepping forward, her boots landing soft in the dust. She approached the nearest figure, flashlight steady in her hand.

“Looks like these guys met them.”

She gestured to the nearest mummy with a slow tilt of her head. Up close, the damage was clearer. The linen wrapping was torn, not by age or decay, but shredded—deep claw marks raked across the chest and abdomen, as though something had tried to tear its way inside.

Steven nodded slowly, his eyes still wide and fixed on the mural. They glimmered faintly in the shifting light, full of something between awe and unease. “Right. Quite the impressive send-off,” he muttered, almost to himself, then turned to follow the chamber’s edge, drifting closer to the shadowed far side.

He only got a few steps before pulling up short.

“Ah—oh, my God.” His voice pitched up, sharp with sudden horror. “Oh, God—”

The words hit the air like a slap.

Mariam spun around, instincts snapping taut. Steven stood frozen in place, his flashlight beam trembling as it hovered over something in the shadows. His hand was clamped tightly over his mouth, and the color had drained from his face, leaving him ghost-pale.

She rushed to his side, breath catching. “What? What is it—?”

Then she saw it.

Just beyond the reach of their main lights, tucked half in shadow, was a low stone table. Its surface glistened.

It was soaked in red.

Slick, dark blood painted every inch, pooled in the shallow grooves of the carvings. It had crusted around the edges, drying in thick, tacky streaks—but much of it was still disturbingly wet. Bits of unidentifiable matter were scattered across the surface. Torn cloth. Bone fragments. Strips of flesh clinging to the stone like something chewed and spat back out.

Mariam recoiled instinctively, her stomach turning. The coppery smell hit a second later, sickly and sharp.

Steven’s voice broke the silence, muffled behind his hand. “Is that fresh blood?” he asked, horrified. “Isn’t that—oh God—isn’t that little chunks of meaty bits?”

Mariam winced hard. “Why would you describe it like that? I can see it!”

He gagged violently, stumbling back a step, one hand braced against his knee. His flashlight bounced across the chamber, casting wild shadows on the mummified figures watching in eternal silence.

Across the room, Layla was crouched beside a second stone platform, her expression grim. She examined several canopic jars clustered atop it—each sealed tight, lids intact. But something was wrong.

Blood had begun to leak from beneath the lids, running in slow rivulets down the sides.

Layla’s lips curled in disgust. “They’re sealed… but they’re leaking.”

“Okayyy, yeah,” Mariam said quickly, already moving back, away from the tables, from the smell. “Let’s keep moving.”

Steven nodded emphatically. “Good call. Fantastic call.”

Layla rose with one last glance at the jars, her face carefully unreadable. “Yeah, okay.”

They didn’t need to say anything else. The three of them turned as one, flashlights trained on the passageway at the far end of the chamber. Their steps quickened.

But just as they reached the midpoint, Steven suddenly reached out and grabbed Mariam’s arm, stopping her short.

“Wait—just a minute,” he said, squinting toward the floor.

She turned, puzzled, and followed the line of his gaze.

A wide, wet smear stretched across the stone—congealed blood, deep and dark, streaked across the chamber floor. Bones littered the trail, shattered and splintered, embedded in the sticky mess. It wasn’t random. There were drag marks. Long, deliberate. Something had been pulled.

Or had dragged itself.

Steven crouched slightly, his voice low but shaking. “I’m just saying what I see,” he murmured, sweeping his flashlight along the streak. “And what I see is a lot of blood and bones going that way, so…”

He trailed off as his beam rose higher—up the far wall, following the trail’s arc. Then it froze on something overhead.

A structure. A ledge.

A platform built into the upper wall, just beneath the vaulted ceiling, half-hidden in shadow. Wooden beams supported it, ancient and rotting but still intact. And above that—

Steven exhaled a whisper. “What if there’s maybe… another—what if there’s… another—”

His voice died.

He pointed, the beam of his flashlight illuminating a narrow gap. Just above the platform was a dark slit in the stone. An opening.

Mariam squinted, stepping closer. The space was narrow, but it was there—tucked just above the supports. A crawlspace? A tunnel?

“Yeah,” she said, tilting her head. “I see it.”

Steven turned to her, eyes wide. “Should we check it out?”

She glanced at him with a small, crooked smirk. “Sure. Why not?”

Mariam approached the platform’s base, planting her feet beside the ledge. It was just out of reach. She tilted her head up, assessing the height, and exhaled.

“Give me a boost.”

Behind her, silence.

She turned.

“Steven?”

He blinked. “Uh—how do I… do that?”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Alright, come here. Hands together. Bend your knees.”

He obeyed awkwardly, palms forming a cradle, looking around as if someone might step out of the dark and tell him he was doing it wrong. “Like this?”

“Yeah. Now don’t drop me. Push up when I go.”

She took a few quick steps back, then surged forward and planted her boot in his hands.

“Got it—”

Without even a grunt of effort, Steven straightened, and she launched upward. Her hands reached for the platform, fingers catching the edge, torso slamming into the wood with a dull thud.

“Ow,” she hissed, a sharp breath escaping as pain bloomed along her side—unexpected and hot.

Steven turned ghost-pale again. “Are you alright?!”

Mariam grimaced, pulling herself up slowly with a groan. “Yep,” she muttered. “I’m good.”

Mariam drew a sharp, shallow breath as she straightened on the narrow ledge, one hand bracing instinctively against her aching side. Pain sparked under her ribs like a hot wire, but she gritted her teeth and pushed through it. The air was stifling up here—thick with dust and old decay. It clung to her trousers, to the sweat slicking her skin, and left a grainy smear across her palms as she crawled forward on hands and knees.

Her flashlight flicked on with a soft click. The beam jittered slightly as she steadied her grip, then swept slowly across the tight place.

Cramped.

The ceiling was low enough to brush her head, rough stone overhead worn smooth in some places, jagged in others. Shelves had been chiseled directly into the walls, shallow niches crammed with the detritus of ancient rites. The light skimmed across bundles of dried herbs—now desiccated to brittle husks—and cracked canopic jars whose once-ornate lids had long since crumbled. A woven basket sat tipped on its side, half-spilled with coarse salt and yellowing fragments of bone. A snake's shed skin curled over the edge like parchment peeling from an old book.

And then—more skins. Coiled and dangling like dead leaves from a beam, some of them still bearing tiny, calcified skulls. The hollow sockets watched her as she moved past.

A hand—small, shriveled, blackened with age—rested atop a folded strip of linen in the corner. It looked human. It was probably human.

Below, Steven’s voice floated up—tentative and trying to sound helpful. “So… according to the ancient texts, Ammit should be bound to an ushabti—those statue thingies. Sort of like… god in a jar.”

Mariam didn’t pause. She stepped gingerly over something uncomfortably soft and tried not to identify it. “Great,” she muttered under her breath. “I’ll just ask the ancient curse pantry if it’s in stock.”

From below, Layla’s voice rose, slightly muffled by stone. “How’s it looking?”

Mariam’s light slid across a cracked jar near her knee, the inside thick with congealed red sludge that glistened faintly when the beam hit it. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“Very… mummy-y,” she called down dryly.

Layla groaned loud enough for it to echo. “And the exit?”

Mariam rolled her eyes, crawling forward again. “Yeah, yeah. I’m looking, Lay.”

She dragged the flashlight in a wider arc until the beam landed on a recess at the far end of the crawlspace. The shape of it yawned black into the stone—a tunnel, narrow but distinct. She ducked to one knee, angling the light inside. It stretched ahead in a sloping path, just wide enough to crawl through.

A passage. Not sealed.

She straightened carefully and turned back toward the ledge. “Looks good to me. Just—”

Crack.

A sharp report rang out from somewhere beyond the chamber walls.

Gunfire.

The sound sliced through the silence like a blade.

Mariam froze. The light in her hand stilled. Her heart gave a violent jolt.

Another voice—muffled, panicked—rose up in the distance. Then another. Male, shouting something. Angry. Fast. Overlapping with someone else.

Then— bang.

Another shot. Closer this time. Echoing off stone.

Layla’s jumped. “Harrow,” she said tightly.

Steven’s voice shook. “What are they shooting at?”

Mariam didn’t respond right away. Her eyes scanned the shadows below, her jaw tightening. “I don’t know,” she said finally, clipped and quiet.

Then she moved.

Fast.

She leaned out over the ledge, extending both arms down toward Steven. “Come on.”

Steven hesitated for half a second, his flashlight bobbing nervously as he stepped forward, eyes darting between the ledge and the tunnel behind them.

He reached for her hands—but before he could make contact, another sound pierced the air.

A click-click-click —fast. Repeating. Unnatural.

The sound was sharp and deliberate. It echoed oddly, bouncing from the chamber walls like insect legs tapping on stone. It didn’t sound mechanical. Didn’t sound like footsteps.

Didn’t sound human.

All three of them turned their heads in unison toward the dark tunnel behind them.

Mariam’s pulse kicked high into her throat.

Nothing visible.

No shape.

No figure.

But something moved. A flutter in the shadows. A suggestion of limbs too long. A blur of motion—fast and angled wrong, like it wasn’t built for human geometry.

Her breath caught.

“Steven— now, ” she hissed, her voice taut with urgency.

He jumped forward, grabbing for her forearms. Their hands locked. Her muscles strained as she hauled him up, her ribs flaring with pain so sharp it made her vision blur. She didn’t let go.

Didn’t dare let go.

Steven scrambled awkwardly against the stone, boots skidding, knees banging the ledge. But then he hooked an elbow over the edge and pulled with everything he had. Mariam leaned back, anchoring him with her weight, dragging him up inch by inch.

He collapsed beside her with a gasp, chest heaving.

The second his feet cleared the ledge, Mariam twisted on instinct.

She leaned back down, hand outstretched.

“Layla— hide! ” she barked.

Mariam and Steven ducked low, pressing their backs to the cold stone wall as Layla bolted across the room. She dropped into a crouch behind a blood-slicked embalming table, vanishing from view.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

And then—something was dragged into the chamber.

It was not footsteps. It was not breathing. It was something worse.

A wet, sloppy scrape echoed off the walls. Heavy. Uneven. Flesh on stone. Bone rattling under slack muscle.

Mariam tensed, her breath catching in her throat.

A figure emerged—one of Harrow’s men. Or what was left of him.

He was being hauled through the chamber by something unseen. His eyes fluttered, glassy with pain, and his chest rose and fell in shallow, broken gasps. His legs dragged uselessly behind him, the soles of his boots streaking blood in long lines.

Then—thud.

He was dumped on the stone table like a side of meat.

Mariam flinched as the impact echoed through the chamber.

Steven reached blindly and found her hand. His fingers were trembling. She held his tight.

A low, metallic rasp sounded out—then the slow, deliberate shhhk of a blade being drawn.

Then—

Schlick.

The knife plunged deep into the man’s abdomen. His back arched; a choked moan slipped from his throat as the blade twisted. The sound was nauseating—flesh tearing, muscle splitting, fluid pooling in sudden gushes.

Mariam swallowed hard. She couldn’t look away.

The shadows shifted.

A shape stepped into view.

It wasn’t a man. Not anymore.

It was one of the Heka priests—no longer a man or a bound mummy in a sarcophagus, but an animated relic of something ancient and wrong. Its body was leathery and dry, linen clinging like desiccated skin. Its mouth hung open in a perpetual grin—lipless, rotten, gums black. Hollow eye sockets burned with something faintly blue and impossibly old.

It did not speak.

It simply began its work.

With slow, surgical reverence, the priest dissected the dying man— lungs, liver, kidneys—each organ extracted with ritualistic care, hands steady as it deposited them one by one into canopic jars arranged neatly on a shelf just above where Layla was hiding.

The man died at some point in the middle of it.

The priest didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.

Layla stayed perfectly still, crouched behind the table, her hand clasped over her mouth. Her eyes flicked up toward the jars above her, tracking every precise movement. She didn’t dare move. Not yet.

Mariam crouched lower, her back pressed hard to the wall.

Steven’s grip had gone clammy in hers.

Then—the priest paused .

Its head twitched.

Click-click-click.

The sound echoed—a rhythmic tapping, bone on stone, like an insect chittering just out of sight.

Its head turned—sharp, unnatural—toward the rafters. Toward them.

Mariam didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

The priest creaked as it rose, joints cracking. But it didn’t walk around the table.

It climbed onto it.

In one grotesque, jerking movement, it perched atop the dissected body like a vulture—legs folded beneath it, arms loose at its sides. Listening.

Steven covered his mouth with his free hand. His eyes were wide, tears forming in the corners, breath ragged.

The creature’s head twitched again—once, twice—then it extended one long, withered hand outward, palm-down, fingertips splayed. Searching.

Feeling.

Its fingers scraped across the floor—curling over the edge.

And then it began to crawl .

Not walk. Not stumble.

Crawl.

The priest slipped beneath the floorboards, moving like something serpentine in the dust. The sound was unbearable—dry leaves rustling over bone, fingers tapping along the underside of the stone, inching toward the ledge where Mariam and Steven hid.

It was going to jump .

Mariam’s muscles locked. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t—

A crash .

Layla’s arm snapped out from behind the table—hurling one of the canopic jars across the room.

It shattered against the far wall in a spray of ceramic and viscera.

The priest froze mid-crawl.

Then— snap —its head whipped toward the sound.

It dropped to the floor with a wet, fleshy smack. A heartbeat later, it lunged in the direction of the broken jar.

“Layla—run!” Mariam shouted.

Layla leapt to her feet and bolted toward the far archway, her boots skidding in the blood.

Mariam didn’t hesitate—she shoved at the table with both hands. Her palms burned as the stone groaned, resisting her. Steven grabbed the edge and pushed with her.

The table tilted. Groaned louder.

Then— crash.

It toppled with a thunderous clamor, taking the corpse with it.

The ruined body smashed into the charging Heka priest, knocking it flat beneath the stone slab.

The creature shrieked—high and shrill, a noise like glass tearing through flesh. It twitched and writhed, pinned beneath the weight.

Steven stared, breathless. “You—you squished it. You’ve—squished it.”

“Yeah, well,” Mariam panted, already grabbing his arm, “I don’t know how you kill something undead, so let’s go —”

She didn’t finish. They ran. The tomb was awake now.

Chapter Text

FOOTSTEPS ECHOED FROM THE STONE corridor behind them, bootfalls sharp against the heavy silence that had settled over the tomb like a shroud.

Steven turned first, every muscle in his body tensing instinctively. Mariam spun as well, still braced from the confrontation that hadn’t happened—yet. Together, they ducked low, crouching just behind the massive curve of the sarcophagus. Their breath hitched in their chests, held tight as the elongated shadows on the wall began to shift and stretch with the movement behind them.

But then—

“Layla,” Mariam breathed, voice barely more than a whisper, laced with sudden relief and disbelief.

She rose to her feet at once, abandoning cover, and hurried forward with urgent steps, arms already open before she’d even fully seen her.

There in the archway stood Layla, half-silhouetted in the dim, dust-muddled light. Her face was streaked with sweat and grime, curls plastered to her temples in dark, damp coils. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths—but her expression was unreadable. Hollow. Set.

Mariam reached her in an instant, closing the space between them with a single stride. She threw her arms around her and clung—tight, fierce, and fleeting. “Are you okay?” she asked as she pulled back, her hands moving instinctively to search for wounds, to check for blood, to do something .

But Layla didn’t answer.

Instead, her arm moved across Mariam’s waist, guiding her aside with a silent urgency—pushing her behind her in a protective gesture that was as familiar as it was unsettling. Her eyes locked onto Steven. Her posture shifted, shoulders bunching, body tensing like a drawn bow.

Steven’s smile lingered, unaware. Still slightly breathless with adrenaline, he lifted the ushabti like a prize. “Look! We won,” he said, voice light with disbelief and laughter, walking a few tentative steps toward them. “And the ushabti goes to us.”

He grinned wide, almost childlike, holding it up as if expecting applause, as if the tension hadn’t solidified the air between them like glass.

But Layla didn’t smile.

She didn’t blink. She didn’t breathe. Her entire focus stayed fixed—silent and unmoving—as she tracked Steven’s every motion.

Mariam noticed it now, the way Layla’s jaw had locked tight, the way her breath caught like it was caught on barbed wire. She turned to her again, slower this time, brows knitting with growing concern.

“Layla?” Mariam’s voice softened, cautious, fragile, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the tense stillness. “What’s wrong?”

Still nothing.

No answer.

Only that same unblinking, sharp stare—cold, unyielding, like stone carved long ago and untouched by time.

Then Layla’s voice sliced through the silence with sudden, cutting precision. “Can he hear me?”

Steven blinked, confusion knitting his brow as the weight of the question settled on him. “Alexander? I don’t think so. God, I hope not.” A nervous, awkward laugh escaped him as he gestured lamely toward the silent sarcophagus looming behind them.

But Layla didn’t laugh. Didn’t even twitch a muscle.

Her voice dropped lower now—thick with heat and warning, a spark striking flint, ready to ignite.
“What happened to our father?” she asked flatly, stepping forward with deliberate, measured steps.

Her gaze never wavered—not once.

“I’m talking to you.”

Mariam’s eyes flicked anxiously toward Marc, searching his face for any sign of what lay beneath.

Layla held her gaze steady, unblinking, unflinching. Didn’t glance at Mariam even once.

“I am talking to you, Marc.”

Then—before Mariam could react—Layla shoved Steven hard.

He stumbled back with a choked breath, feet slipping slightly against the uneven, dust-coated stone floor.

Shock rippled through Mariam’s chest like ice, cold and sharp.

She stepped quickly to Layla’s side, placing a tentative hand gently on her arm. “Layla, stop,” she said softly, voice trembling with a mixture of fear and pleading. “Don’t—please.”

But Layla’s glare didn’t waver, unrelenting as a storm.

Marc’s expression darkened, shadow folding over his features as he snapped into place, his body moving with the practiced force of repetition, necessity, and dread.

“Come on,” he barked, already reaching for Mariam. “Let’s go. Let’s go.”

His hand caught her arm—sharp, firm—and he pulled, steering her toward the nearest passage without waiting for permission.

But Layla’s voice cracked through the air like a rifle shot.

“What happened to our father?”

Mariam’s steps faltered, her boots scraping the uneven stone floor with a soft, uncertain sound. Confusion knitted her brow as her head turned slowly between Marc and Layla, uncertainty flickering in her eyes like a fragile flame struggling against the darkness that seemed to press in from all sides.

Then she caught sight of Layla’s face—drawn tight with rage and pain, eyes blazing with a fierce fire—and something cold, like a shard of ice, slid slowly through Mariam’s chest, tightening her ribs, making each breath sharper, harder to draw.

“What’s going on?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper, so fragile it seemed as if the words might shatter if spoken any louder.

Marc’s grip on her arm didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened, his fingers pressing into her skin, grounding them both in the moment. His eyes flashed with urgency, fierce and wild, as they locked onto hers, silently pleading, commanding her to understand without words.

“Mariam, we have to go. Right now.”

She blinked, hesitation weighing down her limbs like invisible chains. Slowly, she shook her head, her voice trembling under the weight of growing panic and disbelief.

“No… wait. What is Layla talking about?”

Before she could fully finish the question, Marc’s hand tugged sharply at her arm again, pulling with an insistence that allowed no room for refusal, no space for delay.

“We have to leave,” he said, voice strained and rough at the edges, barely containing the coil of fear and stress that tightened his chest. “I promise I’ll explain everything later.”

But Mariam wrenched her arm free, stepping back a full pace and turning to face him fully. Her voice was steadier now, though edged with panic and desperate need.

“No. Tell me now.”

Layla’s eyes burned as she stepped forward, every inch the storm ready to break—fierce, unrelenting, her presence filling the small space like a tempest. Her gaze was a lightning strike, sharp and dangerous, igniting the air between them.

“Did you kill Abdullah El-Faouly?” she asked sharply, voice low but cutting through the thick tension like a razor slicing through fabric.

Mariam recoiled as though the words themselves had struck her heart with physical force. Her breath hitched, chest tightening painfully.

“Layla…”

But Marc shook his head, rough and adamant, voice tight with denial and pain. “Of course not. Of course I didn’t.”

Mariam stared at him—really stared. Not as a wife blinded by love, but as a woman trying to find a ghost in a stranger’s face. She searched every line and shadow, every tremor in his voice, every falter in his eyes.

And what she saw was real. Brutal. Raw.

She believed him.

She turned to Layla, lips parting to speak—

But Layla cut her off, her voice icy and low, sharper and colder than before.

“But you were there.”

Marc looked away, unable to meet their eyes, as if the weight of the moment crushed his spirit and pulled him under.

Mariam felt her stomach drop, a sudden hollow opening inside her. The ground seemed to slip beneath her feet, tilting with sudden vertigo, threatening to swallow her whole.

“You were there,” Layla repeated, louder this time, voice heavy with accusation and unshed tears.

Mariam’s head snapped back to Marc, voice breaking, fragile as a glass ready to shatter. “Is… is she telling the truth? Were you there?”

Marc’s eyes met hers, heavy with defeat and sorrow. His chest rose and fell with a slow, labored breath, as if carrying the weight of a thousand regrets on his shoulders.

“I was there,” he said quietly. “Yeah. I was there.”

Her whole body flinched, recoiling instinctively as if struck. Her muscles tensed, heart pounding fiercely against her ribs.

She took a step back. Then another. The air around her seemed to thicken and grow sour, pressing in on her chest like it had turned to acid in her lungs.

“How did he die?” Mariam whispered, voice fragile and haunted, barely audible over the pounding of her own heartbeat.

Marc’s gaze softened for a fleeting moment, and he said her name—Mariam—in a low tone that carried more meaning than words. It was as if he was trying to shield her from the full horror, to carry it alone.

But Mariam’s eyes snapped up, fierce and demanding. Searching his face, desperate for answers.

“No,” she said, voice steadier, more urgent this time. “Tell me. Please. How did he die?”

Marc’s expression crumpled further, pain folding into every line of his face. He swallowed hard, as if each word cost him something precious.

“My partner got greedy. He executed everyone at the dig site.”

Marc’s shoulders sagged under the crushing weight of that confession, his voice barely more than a whisper, hollow and broken.

“I tried to save your father,” he said, voice cracking under the strain, fragile and raw. “But I couldn’t. And I…”

“No,” Layla snapped, stepping forward, fury burning in her eyes like wildfire. Her foot struck the stone floor with harsh certainty as she closed the distance between them. She shoved him harder, the force sharp and accusing.

“But you brought a killer right to him. Right?”

Marc didn’t resist. His gaze dropped, voice almost inaudible, weighted with self-loathing.

“Yeah. I was supposed to die that night. But I didn’t. And I should have.”

Mariam stood frozen, breath caught in her throat like a sudden, jagged stone lodged there.

Her legs felt weak beneath her, as if the very ground was tilting away, pulling her down into an endless pit.

Her hands trembled at her sides, fingers curling and uncurling like she was trying to grasp something intangible—hope, understanding, some final shred of certainty.

Her heart pounded loud and erratic, drowning out everything else—the cold stone walls, the distant dripping of water, the silence that had fallen heavy like a shroud.

Her eyes glazed, staring but seeing nothing at all.

The walls seemed to close in around her like ancient jaws, cold and unyielding.

The cold floor beneath her felt impossibly distant, unreal.

Silent sobs clawed at her chest, trapped behind a dam of shock far too fragile to break.

For a long, unbearable moment, she was nothing but a statue—carved from disbelief and grief, frozen in time between the past and an uncertain, aching future.

“Mariam…” Marc spoke softer than ever. “I’ve tried to tell you since the moment we met,” he said, his voice shaking with something heavy—shame, sorrow, desperation. “I just didn’t know how.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. The words didn’t land right. Didn’t make sense.

Then her voice broke the silence—high, raw, splintered through with something close to horror.

“Since we met?”

Marc’s breath caught hard in his throat. His shoulders stiffened.

A laugh tore out of her—sharp, wrong, too loud for the stillness of the tomb. It echoed off the stone, brittle as glass. Like something splintering inside her and cracking into the air.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, but it wasn’t to him. It was almost like she was speaking to herself, to the wall, to some version of the past that had just collapsed. Her eyes darted across his face, frantically searching, scanning every inch for something that clearly wasn’t there anymore.

“You sought me out,” she said at last—and it landed between them like a stone in still water. Heavy. Irrefutable. Her voice had gone eerily calm now, but there was venom under every word. Each syllable was shaped like a wound.

“You found me. You married me. Because you were guilty.”

“No,” Marc said instantly, stepping toward her, his hand lifting as if to reach for her—like touch could somehow undo the damage. “That’s not why. It started that way, maybe, but that’s not—”

She flinched back like he’d struck her. Her entire body recoiled, face twisting with a pain that flashed instantly into something hotter—rage, betrayal, disgust.

“Don’t you dare try to twist this into love,” she spat. Her voice trembled with emotion, but there was steel behind it now. “You didn’t want me. You wanted to be forgiven . You wanted to feel like a good man again.”

Marc’s head shook in fast, frantic denial. “No—no, Mariam. I love you. I do. I love—”

“No, you don’t !” she screamed, the words ragged and cracking at the edges as they ripped out of her. “You love that I forgave you without even knowing what I was forgiving!” she shouted. 

Her hands clenched at her sides, trembling like she was holding something back—something tidal, something impossible. It rolled beneath her skin, huge and wild and barely caged, pressing at the edges of her composure like a wave begging to break.

Her throat bobbed as she tried to swallow it down. To steady herself. To be still. To stay composed.

But it was no use.

The dam burst.

She moved before she could think, before breath or reason could catch up.

She surged forward and struck him—hard.

A punch to the chest. Her fist thudded against him like a gavel coming down.
“You—lying—”

Another blow, her knuckles slamming into the side of his shoulder with jagged precision.
“—deceiving—”

Another—full-arm now, no hesitation, a swing that knocked the air out of him.
“—manipulative—”

And again, everything behind it. Her whole weight thrown into her fist, cracking square against his chest.
“—bastard!”

“Mariam—” Marc gasped, stumbling back a step, pain blooming behind his ribs as his arms shot up on reflex. He caught her wrists, hands firm but unsteady, breath trembling. “Stop, please—just—”

But she twisted in his grip like something feral, eyes burning, mouth trembling, her whole body alive with fury. Her shoulders shook. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her face was streaked with tears, flushed red with heat, but her gaze never wavered—locked onto him like she could tear him apart with her eyes alone.

“Don’t you dare touch me!” she screamed, the words cracking like lightning. Her voice broke open like glass, sharp and loud and uncontainable. “Don’t—touch—me!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and it came out hoarse—gutted. The words tore from his throat like they hurt to speak. His fingers held on because they didn’t know how to let go, because if he let go now, he didn’t know what would be left. “Please—please just listen—”

“Let go of me!” she sobbed, the words fractured, raw. She thrashed, yanking and twisting in his grip, her whole body a storm of grief and betrayal. She fought like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Her chest heaved. She couldn’t catch a full breath. Couldn’t find the ground beneath her.

“Mari—please—”

Click.

The sound froze them all. A soft, boney click , echoing down the tunnel like a death knell. Hollow. Cold. Ancient.

Marc’s hands dropped instantly. Layla stepped back. Mariam stiffened, wiping her face, eyes snapping toward the corridor behind them.

Chapter Text

THAT INHUMAN CLICKING SOUND echoed down the cold stone corridor, sharp and unyielding—like a blade scraping against bone. The heavy silence of the tomb was pierced by the metallic clink, reverberating eerily off the ancient walls. Dust stirred faintly from the disturbed air, and somewhere deeper within the labyrinthine passageways, rusted metal groaned as if awakening from a long slumber.

All three of them—Marc, Mariam, and Layla—froze instantly, every muscle taut, breaths caught in their throats. Their eyes locked onto the narrow entrance, wide with wary anticipation, as the clicking grew louder, closer, each deliberate step echoing like a heartbeat.

“They’re here,” Marc said, his voice low but steady, a cold steel edge beneath the calm.

Layla’s gaze darted rapidly around the cramped chamber, panic flickering across her face like a shadow passing over sunlit stone. “There has to be another way out,” she breathed, voice tight and urgent.

Mariam nodded grimly, the lines of determination carved deep across her face. “Go find it. We’ll hold them here.”

Without hesitation, Layla spun on her heel, her boots striking the stone floor with a soft but rapid rhythm as she sprinted toward one of the side tunnels, vanishing swiftly into the shadows like a ghost.

Marc’s hand moved with practiced certainty, finding the golden axe leaning against the wall. His fingers curled tightly around the cool shaft, gripping it like a lifeline. At the same time, he slipped the ushabti doll safely into the inner pocket of his jacket—a small, talismanic piece of magic, precious and secret, held close against his heart.

Mariam stood at his side, muscles coiled and ready, eyes burning with fierce resolve. The air between them hummed with silent tension, the weight of the moment pressing down like the ancient stone above.

But the expected Heka priests did not come through the entrance.

Instead, stepping calmly into the dim, flickering light of the chamber, came Harrow. His cold eyes flicked over them like a predator sizing up prey—calm, ruthless, unrelenting. Behind him, eight men followed, shadows cast long and dark on the walls—armed, ruthless, and silent as death itself, their presence a silent promise of menace and violence.

Harrow’s cruel smile stretched wider, a twisted arc of triumph as his cold gaze locked onto the two of them. “Just you two?” he asked, stepping forward with slow, deliberate grace. His presence filled the chamber like a gathering storm—dark, inevitable, and heavy with menace.

He leaned lightly on his ornate cane, its gilded tip tapping rhythmically against the cold stone floor—a slow, deliberate beat that echoed through the tense air. “I remember the first morning I woke up knowing Khonshu was gone...” His voice dropped, thick with bitter satisfaction. “The quiet was liberating.” His eyes gleamed like sharpened blades. “You’re a free man.”

Marc’s jaw clenched tightly, muscles taut beneath the calm exterior he fought to maintain. His fingers curled involuntarily around the haft of his weapon, knuckles whitening.

Harrow’s voice slid forward again, smooth as silk but dripping with venom. “Of course, with that freedom comes a choice—an important decision.”

He stopped just a few paces away, standing perfectly still, cold and calculating. His eyes bore into Mariam’s with a razor’s edge. Mariam met his glare unflinchingly, eyes sharp and deadly, refusing to show even the faintest tremor.

For a heartbeat, the air thickened, suffocating in its silence. The heavy quiet was loaded with unspoken threats and promises of violence.

Mariam exchanged a quick, steady look with Marc. That brief, wordless communication carried everything—trust, resolve, the unshakable bond forged in countless battles.

Marc nodded once, resolute. “Okay.”

Harrow’s lips curved into a small, satisfied nod. Then, with a subtle, almost casual motion of his hand, he gestured for his men to advance.

In an instant, the chamber erupted into chaos.

Marc and Mariam moved as one—fluid and precise—every motion honed by years of combat and instinct. They fought fiercely, striking with brutal efficiency to hold back the overwhelming tide. Their blows landed hard, sending two or three of Harrow’s men crashing to the ground—injured or worse.

But Harrow only sighed softly, as if the skirmish were nothing more than a minor irritation in an otherwise perfect plan.

Mariam was a few steps away from Marc, poised to strike again, her muscles coiled like a spring, eyes blazing with determination—when a sharp crack split the air.

Pain flared suddenly, searing and raw—a fiery pulse that stole her breath away. Her leg gave out beneath her, and she crumpled to the cold stone floor, clutching a fresh, bleeding wound.

Harrow’s shadow loomed over her, vast and merciless.

Marc’s breath caught in his throat, the shock of Mariam’s fall ripping through him like a thunderclap.
“Mariam!” he shouted, voice raw with panic and disbelief.
His eyes darted to her, to the blood blooming dark and fast on her leg.

But that moment of distraction was all Harrow’s men needed. They surged forward with ruthless precision, closing the distance in a heartbeat.

Before Marc could react, heavy hands grabbed him from all sides, wrenching his arms back. A brutal kick slammed into his knees, and the world tipped as he was driven down, crashing hard onto the cold stone floor.

Harrow’s sigh echoed through the chamber—soft, disappointed, like a parent scolding a wayward child.

He looked down at Marc with those cold, merciless eyes.
“You still have a choice,” Harrow said quietly, voice laced with cruel patience. “Give me Ammit’s ushabti. Do the right thing.”

Pain radiated from Mariam’s leg, but anger blazed brighter in her eyes as she struggled to sit up, ignoring the ache.

“Don’t give him anything, Marc!” she yelled, voice fierce despite the sharp sting. “Not a damn thing!”

The weight of her defiance filled the room, a fierce flame against the dark that Harrow sought to smother.

Marc knelt—his body held down firmly on either side—his breath dragging in and out in ragged, uneven heaves. The air was thick with the sting of dust, the sharp tang of blood, the choking weight of crumbling stone. Grit clung to his lashes, his teeth, his skin. Around him, the air moved in slow, spiraling eddies, stirred by footsteps that no longer echoed. Everything felt suspended. Tight. Waiting.

His eyes, wide and unblinking, flicked from Harrow’s calm, unwavering gaze… to Mariam.

She sat only a few feet away—upright, somehow, despite everything—her spine rigid, her shoulders squared. One hand braced her against the uneven floor, the other clutched tightly at her thigh. Her fingers were slick, coated in her own blood. A deep crimson stain spread across the fabric, soaking through with terrible insistence. One leg stretched out in front of her, stiff and trembling, as the pool beneath her widened.

Her face had gone pale—bone white in the low light—but her jaw was set, clenched hard against the pain that radiated through her frame. And her eyes…

Her eyes hadn’t dimmed.

They burned.

Fierce. Alive. Defiant. Unyielding. They locked on him with impossible intensity, daring him, pleading with him, warning him.

“Don’t give him anything,” she’d said.

And now she didn’t need to repeat it. She didn’t have to. Not with the way she looked at him. Not with the fire that hadn’t gone out, even as her blood spilled onto the stone.

Marc couldn’t tear his eyes away.

His chest rose and fell in quick, ragged bursts, heart slamming like a war drum inside his ribs. It hurt. Everything hurt. The moment was a knife blade, balanced and sharp, pressing closer to skin. He’d let his guard drop. Just for a second. One second. That’s all it had taken. And now Mariam was bleeding out in front of him. And Harrow—righteous, composed, cruel—stood above them, untouched. Undeterred.

Then Harrow’s voice slid into the space between them. Smooth. Cold. Confident.

“You’re a free man now. No gods. No commands. Just the weight of your own will.” He gestured lazily, a flick of his wrist like the sweep of a knife. “Make the right choice. You know what I’m asking.”

The ushabti sat like a boulder in Marc’s pocket. Heavy. Solid. Anchoring. A curse and a promise. It seemed to drag him down, as if the very stone floor beneath him would swallow him whole if he chose wrong.

He looked down.

Then up again.

Back and forth. Between the two of them.

Harrow, patient and poised, lips curved in smug understanding.

And Mariam—wounded, bleeding, shaking—but somehow still more resolute than either of them.

Her blood trailed in slow rivulets down her calf.

Marc’s jaw clenched hard. His shoulders shook under the strain. His arms trembled. His fists curled against the unforgiving stone, fingernails biting into the dirt, into skin.

Still, he didn’t speak. Still, he looked—at her .

At the woman who had stood beside him when no one else would. The woman who had lied for him. Fought for him. Bled for him. The woman who now, unarmed and barely upright, still dared him with her silence to be something more than what Harrow saw.

To be better. To be hers. To deserve her.

Harrow’s voice was quieter now. “You know I won’t ask again.” A final warning. Almost gentle.

Marc’s breath came faster now, sharp and shallow, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts that seemed to shake his entire frame. Every inhale burned. Every exhale felt jagged. His muscles screamed under the pressure of the men holding him down, joints straining, shoulders pinned like prey beneath claws. But still—he didn’t fight.

Not yet.

Not until he was sure.

Not until the decision was made.

His gaze flicked once more to Mariam.

She hadn’t moved far—still upright, somehow, braced on one trembling arm. Her posture had slackened slightly, but she held it. Her jaw was set. One leg stretched out in front of her, rigid with pain, blood seeping through the fabric at an ever-widening pace. It stained the stone beneath her in slow, creeping pools. Her other hand was pressed hard to the wound at her thigh, fingers visibly shaking now—but she hadn’t let go.

She was still holding.

Still fighting.

Her eyes locked with his.

There was no pleading in them. No panic. No tears.

Just something deeper. Steadier.

A slow, deliberate shake of her head. Small, but certain.

Marc’s throat closed tight around something too thick to swallow.

Don’t do it.

Don’t.

The silence in the tomb stretched like a wire—thin, taut, waiting to snap. It pressed against Marc’s eardrums, heavy and oppressive, until the only sounds were his own ragged breathing… and the steady drip, drip of her blood hitting the stone.

Time warped. Slowed.

Even Harrow seemed suspended in it.

Then—

A breath. A shift. A sigh.

Soft.

Measured.

Almost theatrical.

As if he were commenting on a child’s failed test.

As if this were inevitable.

Marc turned just in time to see Harrow raise the pistol again.

No warning.

No ceremony.

Just the cold, casual arc of a man confident in his own authority.

The shot rang out like thunder.

It cracked the silence wide open.

Mariam jerked violently as the second bullet punched into her side, just beneath the ribs. A strangled sound escaped her—something between a gasp and a cry—as her body arched, twisted, and crumpled backward. Her free hand reached out, fingers scrabbling across stone in desperate search of anything solid to hold onto.

But there was nothing.

Her back struck the floor.

A sharp, wet exhale left her lungs, and she folded in on herself with a shudder.

“No!”

Marc’s scream ripped through the tomb, raw and unfiltered, a howl of agony that tore itself free from the deepest part of his chest. It echoed off the stone, wild and shattering, a sound too loud for the space. Too human.

She lay sprawled across the floor now. One leg still outstretched, the other bent beneath her at an awkward angle. Her shirt clung to her in places, pale linen soaked through with deep, seeping red. The blood pooled beneath her side in a growing stain. Her chest moved—barely. Shallow, labored breaths. One arm twitched, then moved slowly, weakly, to press against the newest wound.

Still breathing.

But only just.

Marc surged. Fury lit up his veins like fire. Every muscle screamed into motion as he bucked hard against the hands restraining him. His head snapped up, teeth bared.

“Let me go—!”

He twisted violently, shoulder slamming into one of the men on his left. For a moment, there was resistance. Then chaos. One of the guards stumbled. The other drove a fist into the side of Marc’s face, knuckles cracking against his jaw with sickening force.

His head whipped sideways. Pain exploded behind his eyes. Blood filled his mouth.

But he didn’t stop.

“Mariam!”

The name came again, hoarse and broken, torn from his throat like something alive. His whole body trembled beneath the weight of his rage and helplessness, fists straining against unyielding arms.

Still, she didn’t scream. Still, she didn’t beg.

Harrow took a step forward.

Slow. Measured. The scrape of his boot echoed unnaturally loud against the ancient stone, cutting through the thick hush like a blade. Each movement carried the weight of ritual—unhurried, absolute. He moved like time itself deferred to his will, as though even the dust dared not rise in protest.

He stopped when he reached her.

Mariam.

She lay crumpled at his feet, her limbs twisted, blood spreading beneath her like a second shadow. Her chest rose in shallow gasps, every breath rattling like a stone in a jar. The pale linen of her shirt was dark with blood, the wound at her side seeping steadily. Her skin was the color of ash. One trembling hand clawed weakly at the stone, fingers twitching with instinctive defiance.

And Harrow—he looked down at her with something that wasn’t quite pity.

It was colder than that.

Detached. Clinical.

Like a judge standing over a sentence already decided.

Marc was still kneeling, still being held down, but barely. His whole body trembled with the effort of resistance, his shoulders rising and falling in rapid, desperate rhythm. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, dripping onto the floor with each ragged exhale. His hands strained, knuckles white with effort, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were locked on her.

Harrow looked up.

Met that gaze.

And then, softly—so softly it almost didn’t match the violence of the moment—he spoke.

“One more time.”

The words floated between them like an invitation.

“Give me the ushabti.”

His voice held the cadence of mercy, smooth and unassuming. But the eyes—those cold, steady eyes—spoke a different language.

They dared.

Dared Marc to refuse.

Dared him to make it worse.

Dared him to call the bluff Harrow wasn’t bluffing.

“To choose her,” Harrow continued, voice still even, still maddeningly calm, “over the fate of the entire world…”

He tilted his head, as if genuinely curious.

“Is that really the kind of man you are, Marc Spector?”

And then, slowly, he raised the pistol again.

No rush. No drama. Just the final act of a man certain of the outcome.

The barrel leveled at Mariam’s chest.

Marc exploded.

He thrashed so violently the men holding him had to dig their heels into the stone. He bucked, twisted, teeth bared in a snarl of pure panic and fury. Blood sprayed from his split lip as he yelled—something broken, something that didn’t even form words.

“Don’t you—!”

The sound choked in his throat.

Because Mariam stirred.

Her hand, still slick with blood, shifted against the floor. A twitch—then a curl. Her fingers dug weakly into the stone. Her body flinched with pain, a cough rattled up from her chest, wet and sharp. Her head listed to the side. But slowly—agonizingly—she forced it up.

Her eyes were half-lidded, unfocused. Her face was pale as bone, drenched in sweat, lips tinged with blue.

But still—

Still, she looked.

At Harrow.

At Marc.

And shook her head.

Slow. Barely a movement. But enough.

Her voice was a breath, ragged and thin, nearly swallowed by the silence.

“No…”

Her gaze clung to Marc’s.

“Don’t… don’t give him anything.”

Marc’s entire body crumpled inward. His spine arched. His face broke.

“Mariam—”

His voice cracked like glass underfoot.

She didn’t look away. Not once.

Even as her strength faded, even as her breath shallowed.

Her hand, stained crimson, pressed faintly to her side.

“I’m not worth…” Her voice faltered, the next words barely audible. “Not worth the whole world. Not the whole of humanity…”

A single tear slipped free, carving a path through the grime on her cheek.

Her chin quivered.

“I love you.”

The words were a whisper. A confession. A goodbye.

“But don’t save me.”

Her eyes fluttered.

“Stop him.”

And then—without a flicker of change in his expression, without a hint of warning—he pulled the trigger.

The gunshot cracked like thunder, sharp and brutal, reverberating off the ancient stone walls of the chamber. The sound filled every corner, echoing relentlessly in the heavy silence that followed.

The bullet struck Mariam square in the chest.

Her body arched sharply in response, a ragged gasp tearing free from her lips—a wet, choking sound that cut through the air like a knife. Muscles spasmed violently, and then she collapsed fully to the cold, unforgiving ground. Her head lolled sideways, limp and unguarded. Her arms fell slack at her sides, lifeless. Blood seeped now not only from the wound beneath her ribs but also from her mouth, bubbling with each ragged, desperate breath she struggled to draw.

Marc’s scream shattered the stillness—a raw, guttural sound of pure, unfiltered anguish. It was the sound of something inside him breaking wide open, fracturing and bleeding alongside her.

“No—Mariam! No, no, no—!”

He bucked and thrashed violently, fury and desperation overtaking every rational thought. His limbs flailed, muscles straining with the need to break free. But this time, Harrow raised a single hand, sharp and commanding.

And his men obeyed.

They released their grip as if letting go of a wild, trapped animal.

Marc stumbled forward, unsteady but undeterred. His hands hit the floor and he lunged across the chamber on all fours, sliding beside Mariam just as her body convulsed with a faint, weak breath. Without hesitation, he gathered her fragile form into his arms, cradling her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. His hands trembled violently as he pressed palm after trembling palm to her chest, to her side—anywhere he could reach to try and stem the tide of blood spilling from her.

But there was too much blood. Too many wounds. Too little time.

“Mariam—” he whispered, voice breaking like glass. “I’m here. I’m here, baby, I’m—God—please—”

Her eyes fluttered open once more, barely, unfocused and glassy. Her lips parted slightly, stained dark with blood. She was still trying—still struggling—to breathe. To live.

Marc held her closer, rocking her gently, his forehead resting against hers as he repeated her name again and again like a prayer, like a desperate lifeline.

Behind him, Harrow stepped back into the shadows, silent and still—watching. Waiting.

Marc held her close, the faint, uneven beat of her pulse fluttering beneath his trembling hands like a fragile bird trapped inside his chest. His breath hitched, caught in his throat, voice cracking as if each word tore through something vital inside him.

“You’re going to be okay,” he whispered, voice trembling, fragile as a whispered prayer. “You have to be okay.”

His lips brushed her forehead as he pressed his own there, desperate to share strength, to anchor her in this moment. “You’re going to be okay...” he repeated again, each word a fragile thread he clung to, trying to will hope into existence through sheer force of will.

His fingers trembled as they traced the sweat and blood smudged across her face. Tears slipped free down his cheeks despite him, breaking loose like rivers from a dam.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, voice ragged and barely more than a broken breath. “For lying. For never telling you the truth... I should’ve told you everything— everything .”

Mariam’s breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, each inhale a battle fought with silent courage. Her fingers twitched weakly, uncertain at first, then stirred with something more purposeful.

Slowly, painfully, she reached up—her hand shaking as it brushed against Marc’s tear-streaked cheek.

The touch was feather-light, a whisper of warmth in the cold tomb, but it carried a weight that settled deep into his soul—anchoring, grounding, real.

A faint, fragile smile flickered across her lips—soft and fleeting like a candle’s flame flickering bravely in a storm-dark room.

She brushed his tears away with the back of her hand, her eyes shimmering with love, sorrow, and something fierce beyond words.

Marc’s breath caught again. His fingers closed gently around hers, trembling but certain.

Her voice was barely more than a broken whisper, fragile and aching—but it shattered the silence like glass breaking in the dark.

“I love you,” she said, struggling to speak through the pain, each word a precious, fragile gift. “I’ve always loved you...”

Mariam’s fingers slipped slowly and softly from Marc’s grasp—limp and fragile as a dried leaf drifting aimlessly on a breeze, weightless and beyond control. Her eyes fluttered closed, heavy lids descending like the last curtain on a fading play. The faint, fragile smile that had touched her lips lingered for a heartbeat longer, fragile and haunting, as if clinging to a final thread of hope. Then, almost imperceptibly, it faded away—dissolving into stillness and silence.

Her breath stilled.

The faint rise and fall of her chest ceased entirely, and in that terrible instant, a cold, crushing silence filled the space between them. It swallowed the chamber whole, deeper and darker than the shadows that clung to the walls. Time seemed to pause, caught in the terrible gravity of that moment.

Marc’s world shattered beneath him.

It cracked and splintered like fragile glass crushed underfoot, fragments of light and hope scattering helplessly away. His hands tightened desperately around her, seeking warmth, seeking life—clutching for anything to hold onto. But there was no warmth left. No breath. No pulse. Only the cold stillness of a body gone silent.

His eyes locked on her still face, searching, pleading, as disbelief rooted him to the spot. It was as if his mind refused to accept the unbearable truth.

“No,” he breathed, voice trembling, raw and broken, barely more than a strangled whisper in the vastness of the tomb. “No... open your eyes. Please, just say something. Say anything.”

His hands shook as he cradled her, gentle fingers brushing her hair back from her pale forehead. He shook her gently, desperation bleeding into panic, every trembling movement fueled by a fierce refusal to let go. “Yell at me,” he begged, voice breaking, voice cracking. “Scream—don’t leave me like this. Don’t leave me here.”

The tears came then, spilling freely, hot and unrestrained. They carved wet trails down his cheeks and soaked into his shirt as he held her closer, as if the act of holding could pull her back from the edge of that endless silence.

“Come back,” he pleaded, voice raw and breaking beneath the unbearable weight of his sorrow. “Please... come back to me. I won’t disappear. I won’t leave you. I swear—”

His words dissolved into sobs, tears choking the sound, and his body shook with grief so vast it seemed to threaten to tear him apart. The hollow emptiness left behind was unbearable, and no prayers, no desperate cries, no whispered promises could fill it.

But she didn’t move. No flutter of lashes. No stirring of breath. No sound.

She was gone. And no prayers, no words… nothing could bring her back.