The sun beat down with merciless heat, pressing against Dhia's skin until his cloak clung damp with sweat. Each breath tasted of sand. The dunes stretched in every direction, shimmering in waves of gold beneath the sky.
He had seen deserts before in campaigns along the trade routes, but this felt different. Empty in a way that was unnatural silent, as if the land itself held its breath.
He pulled the book from his satchel once more. Its leather, once charred and blood-stained, was smooth and whole now, the corners sharp and strong. The pages no longer crumbled at his touch. Instead, faint lines of script flickered in the sun ancient letters that burned briefly before dissolving into nothing.
Dhia's fingers lingered on the cover. The warmth of it seeped into his hand, steady and deliberate, like a pulse. He forced the book shut and pressed it back into his bag. The more it changed, the more he feared it.
The Sphinx loomed closer. Its lion body and human face stared across the desert with a gaze so ancient it made Dhia's spine tighten. He had heard of Egypt in stories told by travelers and merchants of temples that scraped the heavens, of kings who ruled as gods, of monuments that defied time. But never had he dreamed of standing before one.
The ground rumbled softly beneath his feet. The seam at the Sphinx's base yawned wider, dust cascading as stone shifted with a groan that echoed across the sands. Dhia froze.
The dark passage gaped before him, small enough that he would need to bow to enter. Cool air drifted out, carrying with it the scent of stone and something sharper metal, or blood.
The book stirred in his bag, hot against his side.
His heart thundered. "What do you want of me?"
Only silence answered.
He glanced at the horizon. No soldiers, no caravans, no escape. The desert offered nothing. The only path forward lay within the shadow of the lion.
He stepped closer, sand crunching beneath his boots. The entrance seemed to breathe, the air inside shifting as though alive. As his shadow crossed the threshold, whispers brushed against his ears—soft at first, then louder, circling him.
"Guardian… chosen… Basra…"
Dhia spun, fists clenched, but there was no one. The whispers were not outside—they were inside his head.
Sweat traced down his temple. He gritted his teeth, forcing one hand to reach into the dark. His palm brushed the cool stone frame of the doorway. The book in his bag grew hotter, until he winced from the heat. "Enough" he hissed.
And with a breath heavy as iron, Dhia bowed low and stepped into the passage.
The world swallowed him whole.