he sun was descending slowly and sunset was approaching, casting dark shadows across the large city of Waset. the sunlight flowed and spread gently across the surface of the stone towers of the Temple of Amun,
Layla stood at the base of that great temple , her eyes following the hieroglyphic symbols carved deep into the polished granite—words older than memory, yet somehow filled with energy.
She could feel it again—that strange soft steady sound beneath her skin. Ever since her encounter with the scroll in the secret vault, something inside her had changed. Her dreams became clearer, sharper. Her body vibrated with whispers that she could almost translate. It frightened her, but it also thrilled her.
"I knew you'd return."
Layla turned quickly, she was startled. A man stepped out from behind the tall grass near the temple's wall. He wore the long robes of a temple scholar, but they were stained with dust and ink. His face was familiar—one of the junior archivists she'd often saw in the Great Hall, though she'd never spoken to him.
"You've been following me," she said, her tone sharp.
"No," he said, tilting his head with a faint, curious smile. "I've been waiting."
Layla took a step back. The priestesses had warned her of fanatics—those who dwelled too deeply in the old magic and lost themselves to it.
"I saw you in the vault," he continued, stepping closer. "You read the scroll right?."
"How do you know that?"
He looked up at the stone tower and tapped a line of text gently with his finger and said in a calm but domineering voice "Because only a true Scriptweaver can unlock the curse-seal that binds those scrolls. And when you did, it spread throuh the sacred stones. Some of us can feel it."
Layla hesitated for a moment. Her instincts screamed at her to flee, but her curiosity made her stay rooted in her place.
"What are you talking about? The curse-seal? She asked in doubt
He moved closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. "This temple guards more than just offerings to the gods. Deep beneath the Obsidian Archive, sealed within the labyrinth of forgotten catacombs, lies the Tomb of Echoes—where the First Words were written, by the hand of Thoth himself."
She blinked. "That's a myth."
He smiled again, a flash of white teeth. "So was the scroll you touched. Until you opened it."
Layla swallowed, her throat dry. "Who are you?"
He bowed slightly. "My name is Kesi. I was once a Scriptweaver, before I questioned too much."
"What do you want from me?"
"I want to help you understand what you are," he said. "Before the others do."
Before she could answer, a sharp horn sounded from within the temple grounds. Kesi flinched.
"We don't have much time," he said urgently. "The High Priestess knows. She's searching for you."
Layla's eyes widened. "What? Why?"
"Because you've awakened something ancient. And not everyone wants it to return."
He reached into his sleeve and handed her a small obsidian pendant shaped like an eye. The Eye of Horus—but twisted, incomplete, its lines broken as though unfinished.
"Wear it. It will mask your presence from the Seekers. Meet me at the Hall of Fallen Sand tomorrow night. Come alone. And trust no one—not even your friends in the palace."
Before she could stop him, Kesi turned and disappeared into the shadows, vanishing like smoke between columns of stone.
Layla stood there, heart pounding like crazy, the pendant warm in her hand. The sky above had deepened to violet, and the shadows grew longer. Somewhere beyond the temple walls, the city was getting ready for the evening prayers. But Layla no longer felt like she was a part of it.
She wore the pendant around her neck, hid it beneath her robes, and began to walk.
Each step echoed louder than the last, as if the stones beneath her feet remembered her touch.
And from the stone tower behind her, one faint symbols shined brightly then faded—its shape twisting into something new.