"The convoy leaves in one hour."

Satiah was only vaguely aware of Shimon's voice, carrying over Atem's shoulder from the other side of the room. Dazed, she lifted a hand and ran her fingers along her wettened lips, wondering if perhaps the vizier had awoken her from a blissful dream. But as Shimon closed the door, her husband turned to her, and she clearly saw the smooth sheen on his own lips.

Satiah gazed at him for a long time, wishing desperately for a way to turn back time to before they were so rudely interrupted. Where a moment ago Atem had seemed newly invigorated, he now had an air of anxiety about him that brought Satiah surging back to the present moment. She let slip a quivering breath and made a move to reach for him, but he balled up his fist before she could take hold of it. He blinked his wide eyes, then turned and moved across the room to his wardrobe, where he began making alterations to his attire more appropriate for travel.

Satiah clenched her jaw and followed him, digging through her trunk to pull out her own riding apparel. As she straightened and moved toward the dressing screen at the head of the bed, Atem laid a hand on her shoulder and stopped her.

"What are you doing?"

Satiah furrowed her brow. "What does it look like?" she said, with a twinge of indignance in her voice. "I'm going with you."

Atem opened his mouth to speak, but he stopped as Satiah swept his hand from her shoulder.

"Don't bother trying to convince me otherwise," she said quickly. "I'm going, and that's final."

He looked stunned, but he did not protest further. Satiah smirked and continued on her way behind the screen, where she threw on a slitted riding dress and cinched it tightly with a leather belt. She emerged just in time to see Atem removing his tunic, casting the contours of his body in cool starlight. Even in the hazy glow, she could see the remnants of his scar, tracing jagged along his abdomen.

Atem froze when he saw her staring, and his own eyes traveled downward as well. Slowly, Satiah moved to within arm's reach of him, and she lifted a finger to trace along the fresh, taut skin. At this, he sucked in a sharp breath, prompting Satiah to look up at him. His eyes were veiled by a shadow cutting across his face.

"We have to be careful this time," he whispered, folding his hand around hers. Gently, he brought it to his lips and kissed the pads of her fingers. Satiah felt her stomach lurch with conflicting waves of comfort and dread, which only grew more tumultuous when the light once again caught his eyes. She stared hard at him, and, as if answering an unspoken question, she nodded her head firmly.

It was nearing midnight by the time the convoy rode quietly into the township of Set-Ma'at. With the exception of a few soldiers barking orders, not a word had been spoken since the start of their journey. Atem, riding near the back of the column, was one of the last to see the sleepy village rising up out of the darkness. Firelight danced along its mudbrick rooftops, and heavy smoke seeped down to the path before them, kicked into ghostly swirls by their horses' hooves.

Even at this late hour, many residents came out to see the king and his court making their way through town. Tomb keepers and artisans and vagabonds alike all stood huddled on their doorsteps, wrapped in blankets and exchanging hushed whispers as the column rode by, two-abreast and flanked on either side by a menacing line of foot soldiers.

Atem swept his eyes from side to side, stopping only when his gaze crossed Satiah's where she rode silently beside him. The stars were just barely bright enough to illuminate her form against the cliffside, and in the smoldering light Atem thought she resembled a warrior-queen of old: her torso clad in a shaped leather breastplate, her forearms protected by thick bronze bracers. Her hair had been swept up into a low, twisted plait at the nape of her neck, and her fringes were smoothed into place by a thick headband. She offered a determined smile as he surveyed her, and Atem forced himself to return it before setting his eyes back on the road ahead.

They departed Set-Ma'at almost as soon as they'd entered it, treading carefully along a treacherous path southward. Atem had never been on this road either by horse or by foot, and as it steepened upward, the column was forced to slow their pace even further. Soon, the foot soldiers were squeezed into a single file line, allowing Atem a clear view into the deep ravine below. Even in the cool desert night, he felt his brow breaking with sweat.

To distract himself, Atem focused on the prize at the end of the trail — the village of Kul Elna, and, concealed somewhere within its broken embrace, the hidden chamber which had vexed Atem's thoughts since the last time he'd found himself in the Valley of the Kings. A knife of grief cut across his heart as he remembered laying his brother to rest among his ancestors, just on the other side of the ridge from where they now rode.

Suddenly, a loud shout caused the convoy to stagger to a stop. The horses neighed in protest, and Atem had to cinch up tight on his reins to keep his steed from backing up off the side of the ledge. Ahead, Seto, who had been leading the column with Mahad, stepped down off his horse and disappeared over the crest of the hill. He returned a moment later and half-mounted his horse again, standing with one foot in the stirrup of his saddle to address the rest of the convoy.

"Just down the hill is the village," he announced loudly. "Soldiers, light your torches and ready your arms. Follow me." He swung his other leg over his horse, then snapped his reins and led on.

It was several moments before the convoy had moved enough for Atem to glimpse the village below. In truth, the word "village" was ill-suited to describe the ruined landscape — only the shattered husks of buildings were visible in the winnowing light, and any path which had once led the way between them was now indistinguishable from the jagged rocks and stones. It was clear the earth had nearly sheared itself in half here — part of the town had been thrust up several feet, creating a crooked gully on one side and a windswept cliff face on the other.

Eventually, the path narrowed and began to gradually decline, funneling them between two tall and winding outcrops. The convoy rode on single file, occasionally having to stop to navigate a spooked horse over a large boulder or down a crumbling foothold. After what seemed like an hour of squeezing deeper into the slot canyon, the path finally opened up into a slightly wider clearing, only to terminate abruptly at a sheer wall of rock. But as Atem circled his horse around the perimeter of the clearing, he noticed there was a dark void toward the back of it — a tunnel carved into the rock, and surely appearing almost invisible to anyone not looking for it.

While the mounted convoy moved deeper into the clearing, the foot soldiers filed in behind, their torches casting eerie shadows up the towering cliffs overhead. Seto was first to dismount his horse, and he grabbed a torch from one of the soldiers standing nearby before stepping up to the mouth of the tunnel. There, he waited while the rest of the convoy climbed down and circled around him. Silence still hung thick in the air, and Atem scanned the line of anxious faces, ending with his father, whose iron eyes stared deep into the dark void.

"From here, we travel only with the royal court," the Pharaoh announced, nodding for the lesser priests of the conclave to step back. They did, but a few returned a moment later bearing more torches for the Sacred Guardians to take up. Atem elected to keep his hands free, instead offering the light to Satiah. She took it, holding it aloft. The firelight barely penetrated the heavy blackness, but a set of stairs took shape just inside the mouth of the tunnel.

Resolutely, Seto nodded to the group before setting off down them. Mahad was next to descend, followed by the Pharaoh and Shimon, then Atem and Satiah, and lastly Iset and Karim. The chorus of their footsteps cascaded in echoes down the seemingly never ending shaft, and Atem found it increasingly odd that there were no scenes or glyphs painted on the walls and ceiling. In fact, it wasn't until the stairs leveled out and opened into a wide antechamber that they came across any markings at all.

Atem squinted through the inky shadows at the wall directly across from them, just barely making out the shape of a set of doors carved into the otherwise nondescript rockface. Upon reaching it, Seto held his torch up, illuminating the doors and the glyphs etched into the surface.

"This is as far as we've gotten," Seto explained, turning back to face the court. "We've looked everywhere for a switch or lever to operate the doors, but there are none, and every attempt to pry them open has resulted in broken tools."

Mahad stepped forward as well. "The glyphs say simply: 'Only the blood of the Pharaoh may enter.'" He turned to face the king, whose brow had creased in contemplation. "We thought perhaps the presence of your highness might be enough to trigger the mechanism…"

The Pharaoh stepped up to the doors and ran his fingertips across the dull rock, causing wisps of dust to break away and swirl down toward the floor. After a moment, he pulled away and held his hand out to Seto instead. "Lend me your blade."

Seto looked down at his waist, where a long iron dagger was tucked into his belt. He unsheathed it and offered it, handle-first, to the king. Aknamkanon took it then held it up into the light, causing the blade to glint harshly. He raised his other hand to the polished metal, and, before anyone could protest, he pricked the tip of his index finger, causing fresh, scarlet blood to run down into his palm.

"Pharaoh!" Mahad gasped, reaching out to his king. But Aknamkanon ignored him, instead turning his now-bloodied hand over and running it lightly across the doors.

Gasps rippled through the court as the stone immediately reacted to the king's blood — loud clangs shook the walls, and the etched glyphs suddenly split in two as the doors parted inward, opening to more deep and cavernous darkness.

Seto made a low sound. "So this is how the tomb robbers were held at bay…"

As silence once again took hold, Atem was struck with a sudden and pervading feeling of familiarity. Though his eyes could see nothing of the chamber beyond, his heart grew heavy with the weight of his memories — the voices of the gods cascading down from on high, the heat of the torches lining the walls. These feelings summoned his body into motion, despite the fear that gripped him. Without even a light to guide him, he stepped up to the threshold of the door, feeling the eyes of the court at his back.

"My prince," Mahad hissed, causing Atem to stop and turn momentarily. "Let me lead the way. We know not what dangers await us in the dark."

"There are no traps here," the Pharaoh declared, as firmly as if he knew it in his own heart. He flicked his eyes around the rest of the court. "Come," he said, then stepped up to join Atem in the doorway.

Seto and Mahad were quick to follow, holding their torches up to light the way. Atem continued onward, tracing his eyes along the walls and pillars. While the sights felt familiar in his mind, it was clear time had taken its toll on the chamber — many columns had begun to crumble, and the paintings which had once seemed almost lifelike were now no more than faded silhouettes on the desiccated stone.

Atem stopped walking when the Guardian's torches finally threw enough light to illuminate the back wall of the chamber — or at least, what was left of it. The dais upon which Thoth and Ma'at had once stood was now cracked in half, with the entire northwest corner of it upheaved completely through the ceiling of the chamber. What little of the dais that remained now had a hypostyle pillar leaning precariously over the top of it, its cylindrical sections just barely holding together under its own weight.

As Atem's gaze followed the flickering firelight down the pillar, his breath caught in his throat. At the base of the dais, lying slightly crooked but otherwise unharmed, was the stone sarcophagus he'd seen in his vision.

His father must have seen it too, as he reached out and took Mahad's torch, then moved toward the slab. Atem followed, his heart thumping louder in his chest with each step. Somehow, between all the damage and devastation and years of attrition, this relic had not only survived — but looked almost as fresh and new as the day it was created.

His father looked over his shoulder. "Is this what you saw in your vision?" he said, his voice no more than a whisper.

Atem clenched his jaw hard and nodded once.

The king turned and continued forward, slowly circling around the sarcophagus and inspecting the uncanny carvings in its surface. As he did, Atem felt the searing image of Amenhotep taking almost this exact same path in his dreamscape. His father stopped upon coming to the head of the slab. Dark shadows cut across his eyes, concealing them, but Atem knew they were wide with reverence and wonder — as were his own. He knew his father felt it too — the same hypnotizing urge to reach out and touch the stone — an instinct as raw and undeniable as breathing. Is this what Amenhotep felt all those years ago? This calling to be one with the powers of the gods?

His father's fingers twitched, but before he could extend his hand, the chamber was flooded with light and sound and chaos, as if the entire cosmos had suddenly come crashing down around them. Atem shielded his eyes and shrank away from the slab, unready to face whatever retribution his weakness demanded.

"Who disturbs the slumber of darkness?"

A godly voice boomed through the chamber like a thunderbolt. Still reeling, Atem squinted through the flickering shadows, his eyes now greeted with a familiar, ethereal glow taking shape behind his father. Slowly, Atem's swimming eyes cleared, revealing Thoth, once again standing upon the crooked dais in all his resplendent glory.

The entire court stood frozen in awe, unable to offer so much as an utterance in reply. Even the Pharaoh, who had now turned to face the dais, could find no words or movements to address the god of wisdom.

Atem's attention was drawn away from Thoth as more streaks of light beamed down into the chamber, leaving behind spheres of spectral mist that circled menacingly around the members of the court. Slowly, each sphere formed into another familiar deity — Anubis to their left, Hathor to their right, Apep, Serket and Sobek behind. Finally, Ma'at materialized at Thoth's right hand, stepping forward with her stately head held high.

"Aknamkanon," she declared. "We have been awaiting your arrival — you, who birthed the Millennium Items from strife and shadow."

The Pharaoh instantly stooped to one knee and lowered his head. "Gods of wisdom and justice," he gasped, a hand held tight against his heart. "I am not worthy to be addressed by name."

"He speaks the truth!" Atem snapped his eyes to the left, where Anubis bared his shining jackal's teeth. "Let us cast out his tainted soul and feed his heart to Ammit."

"Temper yourself, Anubis." Hathor's voice floated softly in from the right. "For all his flaws, Aknamkanon is still the gods' anointed one. We should let him speak."

"Tell us, Pharaoh," Thoth commanded, pointing a finger at the king, "why is it you have finally come to seek our council?"

Atem watched as his father stood and turned in a circle, looking frantic and accused. "Wise ones," he said, his voice quivering. "For some time, my court has been stalked by darkness. A man has risen against us, and cursed my family with death and suffering. He stole away my eldest son and grandson—"

"A small price to pay for the sins you have committed."

Atem spun, watching as Apep's forked tongue flickered out from between his glinting fangs.

Suddenly, Serket took a step toward Shimon, who was standing closest to her. He shrank back, turning his face away and gritting his teeth. "Look at them," Serket hissed, reaching out to run her finger along Shimon's Millennium Key. "They flaunt their evil meddling as if they are proud of it."

Atem felt the goddess's words seeping out like venom.

"Please," the Pharaoh gasped, causing Serket to turn her attention away from Shimon. "It is true, I gave the order that brought forth the Items. But I confess, I know not of what sins you speak. Tell me of them, so that I may properly repent."

Anubis laughed heartily. "So he is a fool as well as a sinner!"

"He tells no lie," Ma'at cut in. "He was not there on the day the Items were forged." She stepped forward, then reached into her headband and pulled out the Feather of Truth. Slowly, she brushed it across the king's chest. "His heart tells me those who performed the unholy ritual no longer walk the earth. A shame they are not here to answer for their crimes — but what are a handful of lives for the sake of ninety-nine?"

Atem saw his father's lip quivering. "Ninety-nine?" he whispered. "Ninety-nine lives…?"

Thoth turned his head up, eyes narrowed. "You must know it, in your heart," he said. "You must feel it, with the Pendant cradled close to your breast at every moment. Do you not hear their wails and cries in your dreams? Feel their fingers clawing at your back as you sit upon your vaulted throne?"

The king's gaze grew long, his chin falling to his chest, tears welling in his eyes. "No," he whispered. "No, this cannot be—"

"But it is," Anubis said, moving around to catch the Pharaoh's forlorn stare. "Your bloodthirsty soldiers sent each and every one of their souls to my embrace — some innocent, some not. But all taken before their time, and at the behest of a god whose darkness knows no bounds."

"Zorac?" Aknamkanon whispered, lifting his tear-streaked face. Suddenly, his brow set with conviction. "Tell me," he begged, turning back to Thoth and Ma'at. "Tell me how to defeat this evil. Tell me how to make right my sins."

Thoth took a deep breath. "Zorac has been sharpening his vengeance for millennia — but our magic is strong. He will continue to slumber in his sarcophagus, so long as the Millennium Items never return to the stone from which they were formed." He paused, looking down at the slab behind the king. "In his ambition, Amenhotep foolishly released part of Zorac's evil essence upon the land of Egypt. But even the heretic was not callous enough to perform the ritual Zorac demanded of him. When Amenhotep saw the sacrifice it required — when he was forced to stare into the eyes of those ninety-nine tributes — he hesitated. Just long enough for Ramesses to rise up and strike him down."

"Ramesses was strong, but he did not prevail over evil by his might alone," Ma'at went on. "He wisely sought out the guidance of god-kings passed — those who had wielded the gift of our magic with reverence and respect. With their help, the race of men may yet stand a chance at defeating Zorac once and for all."

"Who?" the Pharaoh asked.

Thoth and Ma'at met eyes for a moment, their faces twisted with uncertainty. Finally, Thoth looked back at his anointed subject. "The line of Khufu," he said. "Beneath the tombs of father, son and grandson lie the ka of the three Holy Gods — Horus, Osiris and Ra — whose combined power is all but limitless. Ramesses needed only one such ka to smite Amenhotep's heresy — but should Zorac ever be fully released upon the earth, even the strength of all three Gods may not be enough to dethrone the king of darkness."

Aknamkanon beat his hand against his chest. "With this court as my witness, I swear I will do everything in my power to secure the ka of the Holy Gods."

"You?" Once again, Anubis laughed wryly. "Who are you to assume you are worthy of such an honor? You are lucky we did not strike you down upon entering this sacred chamber. For you to think you would be welcomed in the tombs of Khufu, Khafra and Menkaura — your arrogance knows no bounds!"

Listening to the gods chastise his father set Atem's heart on fire with anger and shame.

"How then?" his father pleaded, flicking his wide eyes between the holy faces surrounding him. "Tell me how I can make myself worthy!"

"I'm afraid Anubis may be right," Ma'at said firmly. "Those who seek to invoke the Holy Gods must be pure of heart — and whether by your knowledge or not, your reign has been forever tainted by unconscionable death and darkness."

"Perhaps not." Hathor's voice cut in once more, and Atem turned to see her motherly gaze settling on him. "The sins of the father are not always passed onto the son. There may be hope yet within the Pharaoh's line."

Atem's breathing grew shallow and ragged with panic, as suddenly all eyes in the room — both earthly and divine — turned to him. He searched desperately for his father's gaze, but the king's head had fallen, a curtain of darkness drawn over him. Slowly, he turned back around and lifted his face to his holy arbiters.

"Do you accept this verdict?" Thoth asked, his voice low and measured.

Atem began to tremble as he watched his father, without hesitation, kneel before the gods and grant his consent with a decisive nod.

Immediately, a pillar of light and heat beamed down from the ceiling, as fast and jagged as a lightning bolt. It struck the king where he knelt, and summoned forth from him a cry of pain that Atem felt deep within his soul. He, too, found himself crying out and surging forward — reaching desperately, like a frightened child, but he was held back by a warm and familiar embrace, rigid arms wrapped around his waist and shoulders.

"No!" he cried, struggling against his wife's hold, tears shaking free from his face. "No — Father! Don't go! Don't go!"

But as soon as it had come, the light was gone. His father's shaded form was left behind, but within the deafening silence, Atem knew. The light had taken everything with it — every bit of his father's wisdom, every moment of virtue, every wise word and stern admonishment — all swept away into the darkness, along with his sins.