They settled on the steps before the golden throne.

  The story Khenemhotep was about to tell would be long, and standing the entire time would quickly become exhausting. On the other hand, there was only one chair in the room, so who should sit on it? The host, or the master? Rather than waste time on a pointless debate over it, Viktor simply sat down on the steps, and the two Guardians followed suit.

  He gnced at the mummy. “We’re ready, High Priest. Tell us your story.”

  But Khenemhotep didn’t begin. His emerald eyes glowed softly, unfocused, not looking at either of them.

  “And it occurs to me that I don’t even know where to start, for this is a matter that weighs heavily upon me. It is no simple story, because it grew over many days and was shaped by the hands of many people. Should I tell you everything that came before? The ways of my people, the faith of my fathers, and the customs of the nd where I lived? Without them, you may not understand the strife that came at the end or the cause of the sorrow that befell. But it is indeed long, and I am unsure. So here I am, hesitating, trying to find the right pce to begin.”

  Viktor chuckled. “Just start wherever you like. We’ll ask questions if there’s anything unclear.”

  “Why not start with you?” said Sebekton. “Your birth, your upbringing. Why did you become a priest in the first pce?”

  “Good idea,” Viktor agreed. “Who were you, before all this?”

  “Very well, then let the beginning be spoken. Let the sands of memory rise again, and the past be made present, if only for a little while,” Khenemhotep said. “Yet, my story is neither grand nor illustrious, for I was born in a vilge of no renown. My father was a stonemason, my mother a weaver. From a young age, my heart was drawn to stories. I listened to them, and I remembered them. Those words became treasures that I carried within.”

  He paused, as if he were reliving something from a long time ago.

  “When I was but ten years old, a priest came through our neighborhood. He stopped when he saw me telling a story to the children who gathered around me. And the priest was amazed, for my words flowed freely, yet not one was lost. He summoned me, saying, ‘Come with me, for you have the gift of memory.’ My mother cried tears of joy, and my father bowed himself low in respect. I left my home that day, and from then on, I lived in the temple for the rest of my life.”

  “I see,” Viktor said. “So the temple took you in when you were just a boy, and raised you to become a priest.”

  “Verily, Sovereign of the Dungeon.”

  He turned to his other Guardian. “Come to think of it, how did you become a warrior? Or is that just what all Crocodilians are born to do?”

  Sebekton let out a low chuckle. “We’re more than just walking teeth, Master. My people have hunters, fishers, gatherers, builders. Fighting is a part of life, yes, but it’s not the only part.”

  “So not everyone is a warrior?”

  “Everyone can fight, if they have to. But a full-time warrior? Not so common. I was born the second son of my tribe’s chieftain, so I’ve been trained to fight since I could walk.”

  “The second son, huh? That means it’s your older brother who’ll succeed your father, not you?”

  “Yes, Master. And he already has, actually. After my father died, my brother became the new chieftain, as tradition dictates, and I was his top enforcer. I was the strongest warrior in the tribe, after all. No one could best me in the pit or on the hunt.”

  “If you were the strongest, shouldn’t you have been chief?” Viktor said, stroking his chin.

  Sebekton threw his head back in ughter, his tail smming against the stone floor. “Ah, there it is. The outsider’s view,” he said, once the guffaw subsided. “I know that most folk think we Crocodilians are just a bunch of savages who solve everything with cws and teeth. I’ve even met a guy who believed that you could challenge the chieftain to a duel and become the next ruler of the tribe if you won. Honestly, what kind of morons choose their leader like that? No, we have rules, we have order. Strong warriors are respected, but they don’t get to rule by default. If anyone could just seize leadership because he’s powerful, everything would fall apart. He shrugged, then added. “Not that coups never happen, but those who attempt them are usually frowned upon.”

  Well, there was someone right here in this very room who became emperor simply because he was the most powerful man in the world. Oh, he also took over someone else’s throne in a rather deadly fashion, by the way.

  “So I worked with my brother,” Sebekton continued. “Fought a couple of wars. Crushed the rival tribes. They submitted, and... there was peace. Yes, peace. While it’s good for the tribe, I grew bored, so I left. I walked out of the marshnds and into the wide world, to see what y beyond the rivers and reeds. I fought in other people’s battles to earn my living. A mercenary, you might say. Until the day I heard the call of your dungeon.”

  “If you love to fight, why not stir things up instead of leaving?” Viktor asked. “You’re the chief’s brother, and the strongest warrior of the tribe. Surely, your people will listen to you. There are always enemies to fight, nd to conquer.”

  “Master, we Crocodilians are simple folks. We’re not ambitious,” Sebekton said, shaking his head. “We have disputes, yes, and sometimes disputes must be settled with violence. But once they’re resolved, they end there. Why keep pushing? Conquest for the sake of conquest? That’s not how we think.”

  His expression became serious, and he met Viktor’s gaze with unwavering certainty.

  “Yes, I enjoy fighting. I live for the thrill of testing myself against powerful opponents. But that’s my desire. There are many in my tribe who want nothing more than to live quietly, raise hatchlings, mend nets, share stories by the fire. Who am I to drag them into war for my own satisfaction? Those who hunger for battle should go to battle themselves. Alone. They should never pull others into it, especially the ones who don’t share their thirst. That’s my belief.”

  Viktor chuckled. Savage, huh? In a way, the Crocodilians were more civilized than a lot of people in this world.

  Khenemhotep, who had until now remained silent, also gave an approving nod. “You carry the marks of a soul most noble, my lord Sebekton.”

  “Anyway, let’s not digress,” Viktor said. “We’re here to listen to the High Priest’s story, aren’t we? Please, continue. Tell us what happened after you became a priest.”

  “Sovereign of the Dungeon, you already know, for I have told you when we first met, that I am a priest of the Bearded God. It was my duty to care for the tombs, which served as the gateway to the world beyond. We prepared the bodies of the dead: we bound them, we anointed them, and we id them in stone coffins. Then we brought them here, into the Chamber of the Dead, along with their offerings, so they would not journey alone into the nd of shadows.”

  “Yes, you’ve told me that if this were a real tomb, then this room would be where the sarcophagi were pced. But still, I can’t help but find it... impractical.” Viktor swept his gaze around the chamber. “It’s big by itself, sure, but tiny in comparison to the whole structure. Most of the building is just stone, with very little usable space.”

  “You are right to inquire, Sovereign of the Dungeon. The design of the tombs varies greatly, depending on who is to be id to rest. The tomb of a king is grand and magnificent, built to inspire awe in all who behold it. Yet the burial chamber itself is small, for it is meant for the king alone, and at times, his consort.”

  Khenemhotep inclined his head.

  “But the tombs of other men are different. Their tombs may look humble from the outside, but the chambers within are broad and many. Some tombs even have several chambers. The wealthy make room for their entire household, father and mother, daughters and sons, all id to rest together. But the poor cannot afford as much. Often, one tomb holds an extended family, or even a whole vilge.”

  “I guess the rich always get more, no matter where you go. But what about the nd of the dead, High Priest? Don’t tell me that kings will also have a better afterlife than beggars.”

  Khenemhotep shook his head. “Nay,” he said solemnly, “for all are equal in the eyes of the Bearded God. He judges each man righteously, not by their status or rank, but by their deeds. Those found without sin will be welcomed into the Garden of Peace, to live in joy and eternal rest in the life to come.”

  A meritocracy after death, huh?

  Sebekton, who had been listening intently to what Khenemhotep said, arms crossed and eyes closed, now stirred. His eyes opened, settling inquisitively on the undead priest.

  “The Garden of Peace,” he said. “That’s the pce you just came back from, right? So, what is it, exactly? I get that it’s some sort of paradise. But how does it work? Do people just... stay the same forever? Live the same day, repeating it endlessly? Doesn’t that get... boring?”

  There was a beat of silence.

  “The Garden...” Khenemhotep finally spoke. “It is not a pce of stillness, but of true fulfillment. The souls there are not trapped in idleness. Instead, they are freed from every burden. There, they can speak once more with their beloved, long parted by time. They sing, they dream, they create anew. They work not from necessity, but from joy. For in that pce, every bor is a celebration, and every deed a form of praise.” He paused. “Or... at least, that is how the Garden is meant to be.”

  “You talk as if the Garden isn’t like that anymore,” Viktor said.

  “In the past, there were always new souls received into the Garden. New lights, new voices, new joy. And we, the priests, served as the bridge between worlds. We carried the words of the living to the dead, and returned with wisdom from those who had departed. There was harmony, purpose in everything. But now... it is no longer the case.”

  Khenemhotep lowered his gaze, the green fire in his eyes dimming to a faint glow.

  “Since the Great Camity, no new soul has passed through the gates of the Garden. Many of my brethren have fallen, and those who remain have embraced a deep, endless sleep. Worse still, the living have turned away. They no longer keep the rites. They do not prepare the dead. The bond between worlds is severed, and the souls of the departed wander without guidance. My lord Sebekton, your words are true. The Garden had fallen into stillness, and now it stagnates.”

  Well, it should be expected, considering that the guy in charge of the whole thing could no longer be found in his hall. The dead couldn’t get into their paradise because there was no god judging them, and the living had stopped believing in the old ways because their god had abandoned them.

  “The Great Camity?” Viktor asked. “I assume it has something to do with why you’re here, right?”

  “Verily, Sovereign of the Dungeon.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Everything... everything happened because of one man: Nakhran.”

  There was no reverence, no fondness when Khenemhotep uttered that name, only a bitter distaste that seeped from his lips with every sylble.

  “In his youth, he was a man of great promise. Like me, he was taken into the temple as a child and raised in the priesthood. I, myself, had met him on several occasions, and I too believed in his future. I was certain he would one day rise to the rank of High Priest. But who could have imagined that he, of all people, would be the one to rend our world asunder?”

  “What did he do?” asked Viktor.

  There was a long silence as Khenemhotep seemed to gather his thoughts, but then, when he finally spoke, his voice was heavy with reluctance. “Perhaps, we should stop here, and reserve that part for another day.”

  But you’ve barely told us anything, Viktor thought. But he could see this was a difficult subject for the undead priest to talk about, so he decided not to push him further.

  “Alright, the storytelling session is over for today,” he said, rising from the steps and brushing off the dust from his clothes. “Gentlemen, don’t forget about our combat test tomorrow.”