The golden lid slammed shut with a heavy, final thud, sealing Allen, Ron, and Nancy into a world of muffled chaos and expensive shadows. Outside, the tomb was tearing itself apart. The vibrations through the solid gold floor of the sarcophagus were bone-deep, tossing the three of them around like dice in a cup.
"Bloody hell!" Ron barked as his shoulder collided with the side of the coffin. "Is the whole mountain coming down on us?"
"Just keep your head down!" Allen shouted back. He had his arm braced against the interior wall, pinning a terrified Nancy between himself and the corner to keep her from being rattled into a concussion. The sound from outside was rhythmic and terrifying—huge blocks of limestone smashing against their golden shell with the force of falling meteors.
"We're going to be buried alive in a fancy box!" Nancy's voice was high and thin, the edge of a total breakdown. "Allen, do something! Please!"
"Relax," Allen said, his voice dropping into that calm, authoritative tone that usually made people stop screaming. "Survival is the only priority right now. If we're still breathing, we're winning." He began feeling along the back panel of the sarcophagus, his fingers searching for a seam that shouldn't be there.
"Win? We're in a coffin, Allen!" Ron groaned, rubbing a dizzy spell out of his eyes.
"Not just a coffin," Allen muttered, his fingers catching on a hidden indentation. "It's a gateway. Ancient Egyptian royalty were obsessed with the 'Ka'—the soul. They didn't just build these boxes to keep bodies in; they built them with emergency exits so the spirit could head to the afterlife without getting stuck in traffic."
With a sharp click, a small portion of the rear golden plate slid inward.
"A secret door?" Ron's jaw dropped. "You're joking."
"Wow," Nancy whispered, her tears drying as a sliver of cool, stagnant air wafted through the opening.
"Move," Allen commanded. "One at a time. It's tight, so don't get stuck."
The tunnel behind the sarcophagus was a nightmare for anyone with even a hint of claustrophobia. It was a low, square-cut shaft of sandstone, barely wide enough for their shoulders. Allen led the way, crawling through dust that hadn't been disturbed since the Middle Kingdom. Behind them, the roar of the collapsing tomb began to fade into a dull, distant thrum.
They crawled for what felt like hours, their knees raw and their lungs burning with ancient dust. Finally, the tunnel began to widen, the ceiling lifting until Allen could finally stand upright and stretch his aching spine.
They stepped out into a space that made the previous treasure chamber look like a closet.
It was a vast, subterranean temple, illuminated by a faint, sourceless green luminescence that clung to the walls. In the center sat a figure that made Ron pull up short, his breath hitching in his throat.
"Him!" Nancy shrieked, pointing a trembling finger. "The mummy! He's back!"
Ron scrambled back, nearly knocking Nancy over. "Is he still moving? Did he grow his skin back?"
"Easy, both of you," Allen said, stepping forward. He squinted at the figure. "It's a statue. High-quality basalt, painted to look lifelike. It's a devotional piece."
The statue of Tutankhamun was carved in a kneeling position, his head bowed in total submission. A golden cobra was coiled on his forehead, and his ceremonial staff lay flat on the ground before him. He was kneeling before a much larger, much more intimidating presence.
On a throne of carved lotus flowers sat Osiris, the Green God, the Judge of the Dead. He held a scepter and a flail crossed over his chest, his skin a sickly, verdant hue that suggested both growth and decay. His black, cylindrical beard and tall white crown gave him an air of terrifying, eternal patience. He looked like a judge who had already heard every excuse in the book.
"I don't think we're under the pyramid anymore," Allen noted, his boots echoing on the polished floor. "The air is different. More humid."
"Where are we then?" Ron asked, looking up at the ceiling which disappeared into the gloom.
"Somewhere deeper. Somewhere wet." Allen pointed to the base of the pillars. "Look at the watermarks on the stone. This place floods periodically. There's an underground branch of the Nile or a massive aquifer nearby."
Allen's attention was drawn away from the geography to a black, oily-looking scroll resting on a small lotus throne between four massive pillars. It sat there like a trap waiting to be sprung.
Allen didn't touch it with bare skin. He pulled a pair of dragonhide gloves from his storage space, the thick leather creaking as he carefully unrolled the parchment. The scroll was covered in a frantic mix of hieroglyphs, sketches, and—more interestingly—ancient magical runes that Allen recognized from his private studies.
"The Book of the Dead," Allen whispered, reading the header.
"Is it a spellbook?" Nancy asked, hovering near his shoulder.
"More like a legal defense for the soul," Allen replied. He began to translate the runes, his brow furrowed. "'Osiris, Lord of the Underworld, I have cleared the path. I walk the road of Horus. I am the lotus born of the sun's light. Look upon me and see I am innocent. Grant me the breath of eternity.'"
He pointed to an exquisite drawing on the side of the scroll. It depicted a stylized Tutankhamun holding a glowing purple scarab. The drawings showed the King's soul being poured, like liquid light, into the gemstone.
"He really did it," Allen murmured. "He didn't trust the gods to bring him back. He tried to bypass the judgment by hiding his heart in a beetle."
"Horus?" Nancy asked, trying to keep up. "Who's that?"
"Osiris's son," Allen explained. "The one with the hawk head. His eye is supposed to be able to see through any lie. It's a symbol of healing and protection, but it's also the eye that watches the scales of judgment."
"But why a dung beetle?" Ron made a face of pure disgust. "I mean, of all the things to turn into... why a bug that rolls around in literal shite?"
"Because the Egyptians saw them as symbols of the sun," Allen said. "They thought the beetle rolling a ball of dung was a metaphor for the sun being moved across the sky. Rebirth. New life from decay. It's poetic, in a gross sort of way."
"He killed thousands of people just to have an audience when he woke up," Ron scoffed, gesturing back toward the collapsed tomb. "And he calls himself 'innocent' in his little book? The guy was a nutcase."
"And now he's just ash on the floor," Nancy added, looking up at the silent statue of Osiris. "He waited four thousand years in a box just to be stepped on by a wizard. Talk about a bad investment."
"Does the book say how to leave?" Ron asked, his eyes darting around the shadows. "Because I'm really done with the 'Ancient Egypt' experience."
"It says we have to avoid the 'Shadow of the Creator'—the Black Orlov," Allen read, his eyes narrowing. "It claims the stone is a gatekeeper. If you carry the curse, you stay in the dark. If you're clean, you return to the sun."
"The Black Orlov?" Allen's mind flashed to the massive black gem he had snatched from the Pharaoh's wand. Was that the energy stone the system had flagged?
He pulled the Pharaoh's wand from his storage. The moment the black gem entered the temple's atmosphere, it began to vibrate. Suddenly, the gem tore itself free from the wand's housing. It didn't fall. It rose into the air, glowing with a cold, sucking darkness, and flew straight toward the statue of Osiris.
With a metallic clack, the gem seated itself perfectly into the top of the deity's scepter.
"Uh, Allen?" Ron whispered, backing away. "Was it supposed to do that?"
Before Allen could answer, the green light died.
The temple was plunged into a darkness so absolute it felt physical, like being buried in cold velvet.
Crunch.
Nancy shrieked. "Something's under my foot! I stepped on something... it's moving!"
Allen felt a dry, tickling sensation brush against his ankle. He reacted instantly, kicking out hard, but his foot met only empty air.
"Lumos!" Allen snapped, flicking his wand.
Nothing happened. Not even a spark.
"Lumos! LUMOS!"
Silence. The magic in the air felt dead, suppressed by the presence of the Black Orlov on the scepter.
"Help! They're on me! Allen, help!" Ron's voice was full of genuine terror.
The sound started then—a carpet of noise. It was the sound of a million tiny, armored legs clicking against the stone. Scuttle-scuttle-click. It sounded like a tide of dry leaves, but heavier.
Allen felt something crawl up his leg. It wasn't the soft, hairy touch of a spider. This was hard, chitinous, and tipped with sharp, hooked barbs.
"Don't panic!" Allen yelled, though he was stomping his feet desperately as the floor beneath him began to heave. The entire ground felt like it was shifting, a living wave of carapaces and legs rolling over his boots.
"They're not spiders, Ron!" Allen shouted over the sound of Nancy's sobbing and the deafening clicking.