The helicopter's rotors carved through the desert air, whipping sand into spirals that danced and vanished in the fading light. Damian Holt pressed his palm against the window, watching the endless expanse of ochre and shadow blur into a horizon where earth and sky seemed welded together. Somewhere below, hidden among weathered plateaus and ancient ravines, lay his destination—and his next paycheck.
"Five minutes out," the pilot's voice crackled through the headset.
Damian didn't answer. His eyes swept the landscape with the practiced focus of a man who had spent too many years reading terrain for threats. The Sahara's edge carried a different kind of danger than Afghanistan's mountains or Colombia's jungles, but it was danger all the same. Here, the desert didn't just kill you—it erased you, buried you beneath centuries of shifting sand until even bones became rumor.
The camp rose from the haze like a mirage given weight: a cluster of white tents glowing amber in the sunset, solar panels glinting like scales, vehicles arranged in a defensive crescent. Professional setup, Damian noted. Whatever the Prometheus Consortium was paying for, they weren't cutting corners.
The helicopter touched down fifty meters from the main tent, skids settling with ease. Damian grabbed his duffel and stepped into the furnace heat, the air ripping moisture from his lungs. He'd known worse, but that didn't make it pleasant.
A figure emerged from the main tent—tall, athletic, moving with the kind of assurance that came from authority. As she drew closer, Damian catalogued details: late twenties or early thirties, dark hair pulled back, dust-marked field clothes that still carried the upright posture of academia. Her eyes, when they met his, were the color of weathered jade and no softer.
"Mr. Holt." Her British accent clipped the words clean. "I'm Dr. Elara Voss, lead archaeologist. I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."
"The consortium wanted me here sooner." Damian slung his bag over his shoulder. "Something about accelerating the timeline."
Her jaw tightened, barely visible. "Of course they did. Heaven forbid we take time to properly document a find that could rewrite history." She turned sharply. "Come on. I'll show you where you can drop your gear."
As they crossed the camp, Damian noted the tension in the workers—Berber, Tuareg, a few Egyptians. They moved with the skittishness of animals sensing a storm, eyes flicking toward the excavation pit, muttering in Arabic and Tamazight. Damian caught fragments: "the ground eats the living… my grandfather warned us… the sand keeps what it takes."
"Superstitious nonsense," Elara said, following his glance. "Every dig site has ghost stories. Part of the local color."
"Sometimes local color has roots in local history," Damian said mildly.
She stopped and faced him. "Let's get one thing straight, Mr. Holt. I don't know what the consortium told you, but this is a scientific expedition, not a military operation. We're here to uncover and preserve knowledge, not to—" her gaze flicked at his boots and tactical pants, "—whatever it is you call your work."
Damian shrugged. "I investigate. I fix problems. Right now, that problem is making sure your expedition doesn't end up in tomorrow's headlines under 'missing archaeologists.'"
"We have security. Marcus Kane and his team—"
"Kane's solid," Damian cut in. "I worked with him in Syria. But the consortium didn't hire me for muscle. They brought me in because things aren't going according to plan, are they?"
Her silence stretched a beat too long. "Follow me," she said.
She led him past supply tents and generators to where the desert floor dropped into a wide excavation. Harsh work lights threw the pit into stark relief. At its center stood something that made Damian's instincts prickle.
A gate. Four meters high, carved from black stone that drank the light instead of reflecting it. Its surface was etched with symbols that hurt to look at—not from any mysticism, but from their dissonance. Circuit diagrams and equations carved by hands older than history.
"Impressive," he said.
"You have no idea." For the first time, her reserve cracked, excitement slipping through. "The stone isn't local. Analysis suggests volcanic glass, but with trace elements we can't identify. The symbols don't match any known script. And then there's this."
She waited until the sun dropped further. As shadow claimed the pit, the symbols began to glow—not with light, but with something like the ghost of illumination.
"Bioluminescence in the carvings?" Damian asked.
"That's what we thought. But there's no organic material, no chemical reaction we can measure. The stone just… glows. Every sunset, without fail." She folded her arms. "The workers started disappearing after we uncovered it."
"Disappearing?"
"Three in the last week. They go to sleep, and by morning they're gone. No tracks. No struggle. Kane's men have nothing."
Damian studied the scaffolding and sensors around the gate. "What's behind it?"
"We don't know. Radar shows a cavity, maybe a chamber, but the readings shift—as if the space changes. Which is impossible, of course." Her laugh was thin.
A chill traced Damian's spine. He'd felt this before, in places where the rules bent just enough to let something else through. "Can I get closer?"
Elara hesitated, then nodded. "Don't touch anything. We're still documenting."
Damian descended the ladder into the pit, air cooling with every rung. Up close, the symbols writhed at the edge of his vision, stable only when he stared directly.
The pull came suddenly—no voice, no thought, just magnetism. His hand rose before he could stop it. Elara shouted, but the sound was distant, muffled.
His fingers met the stone.
The world erupted.
Fire—white-hot, alien, nothing like any battlefield blaze. Skyscrapers bent at impossible angles, glass shrieking as it warped beneath a sun that loomed too close. A wall of sand rose to the heavens, not driven by wind but advancing with intent, devouring all it touched. Through it all came a sound like a thousand voices layered over each other, speaking in a tongue older than words.
Damian saw himself in the ruins of a city he almost recognized, older, scarred, holding a weapon that vibrated with impossible energy. Beside him stood Elara, her jade eyes burning amber, speaking words that fractured reality—
The vision shattered.
Damian dropped to his knees, blood on his face, lungs burning. Elara crouched beside him, her hands gripping his shoulders, concern breaking through her hostility.
"What did you see?" she whispered.
He lifted his head, eyes on the silent gate. The glow was gone, but it felt worse—like closed eyes that might open at any second.
"The future," he rasped. "I saw the future burning."
Above them, the wind rose, carrying the sharp tang of ozone, like the air before lightning.
The gate waited, black and unmoving. But within its etched surface, something had begun to wake.