Page 67 of Rise of the Gods: Vardor's Destiny
"This was built thousands of years ago," I murmured, running my fingers along the stone as we moved deeper inside. "They say it was built in just twenty years, but no one truly knows how. Some claim there were thousands of workers, slaves, even ramps that stretched for miles. Others say it would have been impossible without divine intervention."
Vardor made a low sound in his throat. "If Vaelora wanted it built, it would have been done. Mortals are always eager to build monuments for their gods."
I glanced at him, his olive skin tinged in the dim light of the torches mounted along the walls. "And what do you think? Was this built by mortal hands alone?"
His gaze remained unreadable. "I think it still stands when everything else has fallen."
His words made a cold chill run down my spine and brought home how fickle everything we were so proud of was. In the blink of an eye, monuments like this could be gone. Entire civilizations had grown and fallen apart. What did that say about us, as humans? It was a depressing thought, one I didn't wantto dwell on, but something like a premonition hovered over me, putting a dark shadow over my joy.
We pressed on, moving through theAscending Passage, the ceiling so low we had to crouch slightly. It was getting warmer the further we moved into the sealed belly of the pyramid. The other visitors' voices grew faint behind us, and soon it was just us and the quiet weight of the past.
The passage opened suddenly into a vast, sloping corridor—theGrand Gallery. I stopped short to take it all in. The ceiling soared above us, lined with overlapping stone slabs that seemed to stretch toward the heavens. The entire chamber had a steep incline, and the walls narrowed as they rose, making it feel like we were standing at the base of a passage meant for gods. Vardor exhaled slowly next to me. I wished I could have read his thoughts, because his expression wasn't giving anything away.
"It's beautiful," I whispered, tilting my head back. "The engineering... it's perfect."
He didn't respond, but I could feel his attention shift to me—to the way I was drinking in every inch of this place. I turned to him, my pulse thrumming with excitement. "You don't understand, Vardor. These stones—these angles—no one can explain how they did this! There are no chisel marks. No mortar. The weight of the structure alone holds it together. The people who built this... they understood something we've lost."
Or perhaps, I realized, they had beentaughtsomething we had lost. I shivered at the thought, that maybe Vaelora's hand had been in this all along.
At the end of theGrand Gallery, we climbed up a short, narrow passageway before emerging into the final chamber—the place where the pharaoh had been meant to rest for eternity.
TheKing's Chamberwas overwhelming in its emptiness. The walls were smooth and unadorned compared to the temples and tombs I had studied. At its center sat a single, rectangular stonesarcophagus, its lid long missing, same with whatever secrets it had once held.
I stepped forward cautiously, running my fingers along the rough, ancient surface. This was a far cry from what it surely had once been. Filled with treasures beyond imagination.
"They never found his body," I murmured, staring into the empty space inside. "Some say the pyramid was looted. Others say he was never buried here to begin with."
I turned to Vardor, realizing how quiet he was. Unease filled my voice. "What is it?"
His gaze swept over the chamber, his shoulders tense, his posture rigid. Finally, he spoke. "This was not built for men."
A chill passed through me. "What do you mean?"
He faced me fully, his black eyes appeared even darker in the flickering torchlight. "This was not a tomb, Roweena. It was never meant to hold the dead."
The words settled between us, thick as the ancient air. My pulse quickened. If it wasn't a tomb... then what was it?
The moment I stepped into theKing's Chamber, something inside me stirred. A hum just beneath my skin, an old whisper threaded through my blood like a memory I had forgotten how to recall. My pulse quickened, and the sensation of being watched set the edges of my senses on fire.
"This was not built for men," I muttered, my voice barely more than a breath.
Roweena turned toward me, frowning. "What do you mean?"
I stepped closer to the stone sarcophagus, running a hand along its rough edges. "These walls should be covered in inscriptions, offerings, and tributes to the dead. Every other tomb in this land—every monument to a king—was made to honor their passage into the afterlife. Isn't that what you told me?" I gestured to the stark, unmarked walls around us. "But there's nothing here. No writing. No gods. Just stone and silence."
She shivered beside me. "Then what was it built for?"
Before I could answer, the air shifted. It was subtle at first, just a change in the weight of the chamber, the faint hint of a breeze that shouldn't be there. And then—a shadow moved where no shadow should be. I turned sharply, my hand instinctively reached for a blade that was no longer at my hip.
A man stood in the entrance to the chamber, half-lit by the torches lining the walls. He was tall and broad-shouldered.
A ghost.
My breath left me in a slow, measured exhale. No. Not a ghost. Something worse. "Asharat," I murmured.
Roweena tensed beside me. "Who is he?"
I couldn't answer. I could only stare. Because Asharat should have been dead. Ten thousand years gone, buried with the rest of the past. But there he was, solid, breathing, and unchanged. The way he looked at me made me think he had been waiting all this time.
