“So what’s the plan?” Maatkare asked.

  Heshtat sighed heavily. “We ignore it. Mark it on our map if you must, Neferu, but we have a mission that cannot wait.”

  Surprisingly, his chaotic friend seemed inclined to let it go with only some minor grumbling. Maatkare, too, accepted it without issue. He might have less of a zest for danger than his younger apprentice, but he was still fascinated by the ancients and their long-lost tombs and temples—perhaps more so than Neferu, honestly.

  “Come, my friend—you think me a complete fool?” Maatkare asked after seeing his surprised look. “I know our purpose, and while I will not deny that leaving such a virgin tomb unplumbed, only to be ravaged by less caring and gentle souls than I, does burden my heart with grief…”

  Neferu looked faintly sick at the description, and Heshtat couldn’t disagree, though time and familiarity with the man had inured him to his poetic and vulgar ways. Somewhat.

  “…I would not dream to stand between you and your long-cherished goal,” he finished.

  “Long cherished?” Neferu asked. “I was told you had only found out about the Eye a few days ago.”

  “Come,” Heshtat said, turning his back on the ruin and heading down the dune, hoping to put this conversation likewise behind him. He had a feeling he knew where his friend was heading with it.

  “Oh, no, not the Eye. Heshtat couldn’t care a whit for power for its own sake. He has his eye—excuse the pun—set on a far grander and less worldly prize.”

  “Maatkare,” he warned, but Neferu spoke over him impatiently. “And that is?”

  “Love!” Maatkare proclaimed to the sky, prancing in place as the team descended from the dune they’d so recently crested. Neferu and Harsiese looked on confused, and Heshtat just silently seethed, cursing his friend and his big mouth.

  “Who—” Harsiese began to ask, but Heshtat cut across them, deciding to take control of the conversation before it could descend into further humiliation. “Enough of this nonsense. We need to make it to the temple before dark. We have a high priest to recruit,” he said, somewhat sourly.

  “Who is this priest, anyway?” Maatkare asked, settling down. That was one of the reasons Heshtat tolerated his friend’s more frustrating flaws—the man had a preternatural sense for when he was about to push too far and always backed off. He somehow managed to straddle the line perfectly between slightly annoying and genuinely infuriating.

  “A high priest of Sebek,” Heshtat replied, glad to be back on firmer footing. “Queen Cleosiris was clear that she commands the man’s favour, but not his loyalty. He is a dangerous and powerful man, and we should keep our guard up around him.”

  “Ooooh,” Neferu hummed. “A dangerous and powerful man? A high priest of a reclusive mystery cult lost somewhere deep in the sands? Colour me intrigued.”

  “Gods help us all,” Maatkare sighed.

  It was nice to hear someone else do the sighing for once, Heshtat decided.

  ***

  Night was shadowing their steps as they reached their destination.

  Heshtat was glad they’d made it in time. Even with Harsiese by their side, the desert could be deadly at night. The Otherworld was closer in the deepest parts of the world—the deserts, the mountains, the jungles and rivers. Anywhere far from civilisation had a weaker veil between realms. He’d heard scholars argue it was due to the foresight of Great Amin-Ra—to build a barrier between realms reinforced by the simple presence of his children.

  Heshtat thought a more grounded explanation was more likely, but he was no chronicler of history. What did he care how it had started? He just needed to know how to navigate the Other, and how to protect his charges from its horrors.

  Speaking of horrors, they soon rounded a corner in the small valley they trekked through to be greeted by a temple overlooked by a great statue of Sebek. The crocodile-headed god known by many names, and none of them pleasant, snarled down at them from on high, its head rising imperiously above the temple, which was itself nestled between massive dunes. Stone steps rose before them, wide enough for an entire company to stride up without breaking formation, and the group began the climb, looking small against the backdrop of the great steps.

  “Leave this to me,” Heshtat spoke between breaths as they climbed ever higher. “Take your rest and enjoy what hospitality is on offer. I’ll handle the priest.” Maatkare looked over with a smirk, but Heshtat silenced him. “No more jokes. This is a dangerous place, and I’d not have an errant word jeopardize our mission. Rest, restock as best you can, and I’ll find you later tonight.”

  Nods all around. No matter what walk of life one came from in Amansi, all knew of Sebek by reputation. If one was lucky, that was all. The unfortunate knew of his followers by experience. Neferu particularly seemed to be feeling the heat of the statue’s gaze, her mood sombre and far from the smiling, fast-talking rogue he was used to.

  Upon reaching the top—four hundred and forty-four sacred steps, each carved in memory of Sebek’s lost sons—they were greeted by a young boy. No more than twelve, he ushered them into a small building on the stone plateau and through to an austere antechamber, before scurrying off after asking their names and business. He returned soon, escorting Heshtat’s companions through a stone doorway on the right of the room, no doubt heading deeper into the temple towards the living quarters.

  Heshtat was given a different destination. Upon exiting the small building, he was once more greeted by the open stone plateau, Sebek’s unnerving gaze now almost level. He looked away from the dread god with an effort of will, reorienting on the temple-proper before him.

  Great pillars lined the front, flanked by darkness. Unlike many other holy sites he’d seen in his years, this temple had no decoration. No mosaics or hieroglyphs, no torches or complex stonework. Simple stone, wrought on the scale of giants, and darkness behind it. Even the way the building squatted atop its stone plinth was somehow malevolent, its gaping maw promising finality and an end to any that stepped within.

  Heshtat shrugged his robe in place, ensuring it sat comfortably against his skin, then marched forwards. The transition from bright sunlight to oppressive darkness was unsettling, but he ensured his steps didn’t falter as he strode into the temple.

  No decoration, no elaborate carvings. A plain entrance hall, with a well-worn path across the stone floor from the passage of generations of feet. Following the trail, he meandered through twisting passages and hallways, once more wishing for his enhanced vision, lost long ago.

  He stopped when a voice reached him. It echoed from deeper within the dark passage he’d been following, and the teasing lilt to it set his teeth to itching.

  “Are you lost, young one?”

  He took a heavy breath in through his nose, squared his shoulders, and prepared himself for a frustrating and terrifying discussion as he stalked towards the voice.

  “I am here on business from Queen Cleosiris, to whom you owe favour,” he said, projecting as much authority and confidence into his voice as possible. He’d never liked Amansi’s many priests, and Sebek’s were some of the worst.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “And here you come striding my way, the good little messenger. How quaint.”

  The disembodied voice seemed to float around him, coming from all angles in a confusing crash of sound.

  “I am not here to be mocked, priest,” Heshtat said, letting some of his discomfort filter into his voice as anger. “Show yourself, and we shall speak like equals.”

  He reached a door, wooden and thick—strange to see such out here in the desert—and heard a rhythmic chanting from within.

  “Equals?” came the reply, amusement colouring the tone. Again, it seemed to bounce around his head, originating from everywhere and nowhere at once. “You speak to a high priest of Sebek, an instrument of the Devourer’s will. You stand within his own house, and dare to consider yourself an equal?”

  “I do,” Heshtat said. He may not have been born of Amansi, might not be considered by some to be one of Amin-Ra’s true children, but he had lived here for over two decades. He had immersed himself in this culture, had studied more of their theology and history than many of the learned men he’d once encountered in court rooms and palaces. Hells, he’d seen more miracles and knew more of divinity than many apprentice and acolyte priests.

  “Sebek is silent, priest. He has been for a hundred generations, just as have all the Ennead. To invoke his name does you no credit in my eyes, nor the eyes of your queen. To whom you owe favour,” he emphasised once more. And fealty, he mentally added.

  “I am a holy man,” the reply came, and now he heard it from behind the door. “I owe fealty to none but the Devourer.” Heshtat frowned, but the voice droned on before he could dwell on the coincidence. “But I do take debts seriously and would not pass any along to my Lord. State your business, little dog, and do so quickly. I—”

  Heshtat pushed open the door, interrupting the voice mid-insult. The room beyond was expansive, larger than it had any right to be. A man, sitting tall and proud within a ritual circle of iron fillings, chanted in a constant buzz of susurrating syllables, unidentifiable to Heshtat’s ears, but somehow their intent wormed into his mind regardless.

  It was a prayer, repeated over and over. A call for something to reach out from the Other and feast on the figure’s flesh. Heshtat couldn’t understand the details, but the theme was vile—a repudiation of everything he held dear, a twisted inversion of sacrifice between god and worshipper.

  The candles around the edge of the room had flickered as the door opened, and now they danced, their feeble light splashing against the bare stone walls and causing the shadows to writhe and twist. Heshtat took a step back as one shadow detached itself from the wall and floated forwards. It curled behind him, whispering into his ear with the same echoing voice that he had been speaking to, even as the man in the room continued to call to his god.

  “You should not be here. Do not disturb the ritual, Heshtat.”

  Heshtat stepped back, disconcerted, and as his feet pressed over the threshold, the door slammed shut in his face. Shadows pooled under the door frame and slithered up the wall to form once more the shape of a man stepping into the hallway.

  “What is this?” Heshtat asked warily.

  The shadow sighed, its thin shoulders seeming to disappear into a single line of two-dimensional darkness as it turned, before the figure reappeared once more walking slowly down the hallway. “It is as it appears. Follow.”

  Heshtat did so, though he kept one hand on the blade at his side. It would be heresy to spill the blood of a priest within their temple, but this shadow was likely some strange synergistic projection brought about by a combination of Shuyet and Sekham—the Shadow and the Power—and as a construct of essence, cutting it down would just be highly dangerous rather than heretical.

  Highly dangerous was something of a specialty for Heshtat though, so he gave the action due consideration.

  “How do you know my name?” he asked as he followed the shadow down the hallway, letting slabs of smooth stone slip past on either side before he came upon another room, this time without a door. He stepped inside to find the shadow sitting in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other. It gestured to a chair opposite, and Heshtat hesitantly took a seat.

  “You are correct to say that my Lord has remained silent for generations uncounted. Where you are wrong is to assume that his will is not felt in the Waking.”

  Heshtat frowned. “Are you claiming that Sebek is speaking to you personally? That The End Of All Things, The Mouth That Marks The Path, The Ceaseless Maw, that most-feared god amongst the pantheon… is identifying strangers upon your request?”

  It sounded even more ridiculous when said aloud, but Heshtat was talking to a sentient shadow, so all things were possible, he must allow. Said shadow stood and began serving a cup of karcade, interacting with the corporeal objects without issue despite its incorporeal form. Heshtat raised his eyebrow when the cup was passed his way, but the shadow insisted.

  “What makes you think I learned of your identity recently?” the shadow asked.

  “Common sense,” he replied. “You are claiming Sebek warned of my coming?” It brought a small smile to his face, to think of one so mighty heralding his presence.

  “Nothing so direct. But I do know of you, Heshtat. I know your name, I know your purpose, and I know your future—short as it may be.”

  “My future?”

  “Your future. Nothing is obscured from the Ennead, young one.”

  “I grow tired of these games,” Heshtat said, placing the full cup back on the table with a clink. “If you will not speak honestly, I shall seek out your true body and discuss directly, ritual be damned.”

  The shadow didn’t move, but suddenly it wasn’t just sitting in the chair. It spread across the floor and the wall behind it, looming halfway across the room to look down upon Heshtat in his chair with violent intent. Its head held no features—a shadowed outline—and yet, Heshtat was given the distinct impression of a yawning maw, bared wide and filled with spittle-flecked teeth and a hungry tongue.

  His Khopesh called a clear note as it was drawn from his sheath, and essence flowed into the blade, lighting it in ghostly flame as Heshtat grit his teeth at the pain of forcing a spiritual connection through his broken soul. He stood now, defiant in the face of the threat, and after a few moments of silence, the shadow retreated back into its human form.

  It chuckled. “Brave, or foolish? Either will provide entertainment. And yet… You said the queen sent you?”

  Heshtat nodded, sitting back into the chair but leaving his obsidian blade resting naked across his thighs.

  “In that case,” the shadow continued, “I shall lend the visions of the abyss more credence.” It hummed to itself for a few moments. “I am almost finished, Heshtat. Wait but a moment and I shall join you in truth, but for now I cannot give you the answers you seek. Perhaps, in the interim, I can provide you with others?”

  Heshtat sighed, then caught himself at the last moment. There it was again. “Speak then. I shall give your body a few more minutes.”

  “Your future then,” it began. “The abyss whispers your name in a thousand tongues, and The Gobbler thanks you for your offerings. Eyes open in an inverted sky to greet a false dawn. Nine by nine they rise, and three by three they fall.”

  The words, once dripping with barely concealed contempt, now took on a ritual cadence, dropping in rhythmic sequence as if repeated over and over until memorised. Heshtat spared no mind for the ravings of mad priests, but he committed the verse to memory in case it could tell him something of the man’s disposition.

  “Balance has shifted and cannot be restored. This predates your coming, but your presence changes the rhythm, and the Waking dips anew. Powers rise and the land shifts further, bringing the past to the present. Time converges and bonds are shaken, twisting into new configurations that echo in the future and twist up the past.”

  Heshtat rolled his eyes, watching the shadow speak but hearing nothing new. The same old drivel he’d heard from the lips of a dozen fortune tellers and wise-women from Idib’s street corners. Something was always hanging in the balance, and vague allusions to a long-lost past and a shrouded future were always bandied about.

  The shadow’s next words stopped his cynicism in place.

  “She will betray you.”

  His gaze snapped back to the shadow, and it cocked its head at him before speaking once more. “She will betray you, Heshtat. As you seek to balance ancient injustice, her past will rear its head and her betrayal becomes inevitable.”

  His attention was captivated now, riveted to the shadow that even now seemed to be dissipating. Its outline quivered, hazy and indistinct as it spoke again.

  “I can help inure you to this sin, you need only offer—”

  And then it vanished.

  Heshtat leaned forwards, hanging onto the final words, frowning in consternation and casting his gaze around the suddenly empty room for a hint of where the spirit of shadow had gone. When a new figure entered the room, it found him on his feet with blade bare.

  This figure stood in the doorway, a green flame bouncing above his right shoulder and casting the room in a strange ethereal glow. He was tall and thin, simple rough-spun robes covering his gaunt frame, and a shadowed hood covering his features. Heshtat saw two deeply recessed eyes beneath a prominent brow, gleaming with the same unearthly green as the fire at his back. In one hand he clutched a closed book—more a tome than anything, lined with gold and looking heavier than his thin arm should be able to support—and his other hand clutched a staff.

  The staff itself was simple; hewn wood, gnarled and knotted and without decoration, but the hand that clutched it was far from normal. It was skeletal—literally made of bone and nothing else, and yet its fingers gripped and splayed without tendons and muscle to guide them.

  Heshtat watched as the man entered the room, slow steps emitting a shuffle-click as he moved with a limp. He placed the book on the table next to the discarded tea, leaned the staff against the wall, patient as a crocodile, then turned Heshtat’s way as he reached up and lowered his hood.

  “Well met, stranger,” the man said in a voice crackling like aged papyrus. “I am the high priest of this temple, Keeper of the Tome and disciple of Sebek. How may I be of service?”