The fire crackled low, its light flickering against the cave walls. Dhia dozed lightly, curled beneath his torn cloak. The taste of dried fish lingered on his tongue, though his hunger was never truly sated. Sleep did not come easily anymore. Every time his eyes closed, he saw flames devouring books, the screams of comrades, the lifeless stare of friends who would never rise again.
But that night, something else came.
At first, it was a sound—deep, guttural, not belonging to man or beast. A roar, distant yet sharp, reverberated through the stone. His eyes snapped open. The fire guttered low, shadows thickening in the corners of the cave.
"Who's there?" His voice cracked, raw with fear.
No answer—only the echo of his own words.
Then it struck.
A sudden, crushing pain pierced his chest. Dhia doubled over, gasping as though an iron fist had closed around his heart. His vision blurred, blood rushed to his head, and his hands clawed desperately at the earth. The fire sputtered out, leaving only blackness.
The book slipped from his bag, its cover glowing faintly in the dark.
Dhia's scream died in his throat as the cave spun and the ground gave way beneath him.
He woke choking on sand.
His lungs burned, his mouth dry and gritty. He spat, clawing at the shifting dunes around him. Sunlight blinded him when he forced his eyes open.
No cave. No river. No ruins. Only endless desert.
He staggered to his feet, legs unsteady, the wind whipping grit across his face. His cloak hung heavy with dust. He turned in a frantic circle, searching for landmarks—anything familiar. There was nothing.
And then he saw it.
On the horizon, a shape rose against the sky. Immense. Geometric. Impossible.A pyramid.
His breath caught, his chest heaving. He staggered backward, eyes wide. The triangular colossus loomed above the dunes, stone blocks stacked into eternity. Its shadow stretched like a scar across the desert.
"The pyramids…?" His voice was hoarse, half a whisper, half disbelief.
Blood rushed in his ears. His knees threatened to give. Mesopotamia was far behind him—weeks of travel, if not months. How could he be here?
He clutched at his satchel. Everything was intact—his knife, his bag, the remnants of dried fish. And the book.The book was no longer burned.
Its leather binding gleamed faintly, the scorch marks gone, the pages straighter, cleaner. He flipped through them with trembling hands. Symbols danced across the parchment, glowing faintly red before dissolving like mist. He tried to focus, to catch a word, a phrase, but they vanished too quickly.
The desert wind howled, hot and sharp, but Dhia felt a colder shiver crawl up his spine.
The book had brought him here.
A low rumble reached his ears—stone grinding against stone. Dhia turned sharply toward the Sphinx, its colossal form crouching in the sand like a lion in wait.
At its base, a narrow seam split open, dust spilling outward. A door—small, almost hidden—yawned wide in the shadow of the monument.
No one was there. No hand had touched it.
Yet it opened.
Dhia froze, the book clutched against his chest. His pulse thundered in his ears.
For a long moment, he could only stare at the darkness within.
The wind stilled. The world seemed to wait.
And then he took one step forward.