We told our parents it was a school trip—some prestigious competition or special program. Arisa had rehearsed her part like a stage actor, her mom practically packing her suitcase for her. James, ever the wildcard, mumbled something about a science fair and was waved off without question.
Me? I told them it was college prep work. My mom looked proud. I hated lying, but the truth was too heavy to speak out loud.
Packing was fast. Most of our gear was already in the travel-worn packs from Shadow Valley. Clothes, canteens, the map fragments, the journal pages—and the stones. The crown pieces stayed wrapped in a thick black cloth in my bag. I kept them close. Too close, maybe.
By midnight, we were on a red-eye flight out of LAX.
I pressed my forehead to the cold plane window as we climbed through clouds. Stars blinked above us like silent watchers. My fingers curled around my backpack strap. The stones buzzed softly, like they were whispering secrets I couldn't quite hear.
James was watching a movie, something loud and dumb with explosions. Arisa doodled in a small, spiral-bound notebook, her hand moving in sharp, deliberate strokes. Alice sat by the aisle, her eyes half-closed, but I knew she wasn't asleep.
Then that feeling returned. The one I couldn't shake.
Tightness in my chest.
Like something unseen was leaning close—watching. Listening.
Alice opened her eyes, slowly. Her gaze met mine. She said nothing, but her brow furrowed ever so slightly. She knew. She always knew.
We landed just before dawn.
Cairo greeted us with a rush of heat and sound. The airport buzzed with activity—languages I didn't understand, scents of spices and diesel, the echo of distant music playing from someone's phone. Everything was louder, richer, more alive.
But I couldn't focus. Not really.
That feeling—that tightness—got worse. Like a shadow trailing me no one else could see.
In the heart of the bazaar, as we wandered between rows of woven rugs, brass lamps, and glowing jars of saffron, I felt it again: someone watching. No, not someone.
Something.
Then I saw him.
Oruun.
Or… something wearing his face.
He stood still while the world moved like liquid around him. Cloaked in black. Pale eyes like cracks in obsidian. The crowd flowed past him without pause. No one looked. No one saw.
He didn't speak at first. He just was.
Then he was suddenly inches from me, too fast for thought.
I flinched back, heart pounding.
He whispered, voice as smooth and ancient as stone:
"This is only the beginning. So many truths still buried. Dig deep, boy."
And then—he was gone. Like smoke in wind.
The others hadn't noticed. I was trembling.
I said nothing.
We booked two dusty motel rooms near Giza—cheap, small, and close to where we needed to go. Alice bunked with me this time. James and Arisa were across the hall. No one asked why.
We collapsed for a few hours of sleep. I couldn't stay under long. Not with the stones calling.
Later that day, as the sky turned amber with the sinking sun, we returned to the market. Alice said we needed supplies.
But not just any supplies.
Artifacts.