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Nothing ever truly stays dead. Somehow, they always find a way to return, clawing their way back to life.

DEATH IS BUT THE DOORWAY TO NEW LIFE. WE LIVE TODAY, WE SHALL LIVE AGAIN. IN MANY FORMS SHALL WE RETURN. 

- EGYPTIAN PRAYE OF RESURRECTION

𝕋ℍ𝔼 night was heavy with a thick, unsettling stillness, broken only by the gentle hum of crickets and the rhythmic crackling of fire. Shadows danced against the looming trees as the torches held by England's guards hissed and flared, their flames devouring the darkness with greedy tongues of light. One by one, the guards approached the blaze, dipping their torches into its fiery mouth, igniting their path through the dense gloom.

Low murmurs wove through the air like a haunting melody, soft chants spilling from their lips in unison as they formed a solemn circle around the coffin. The wooden casket lay bare in the centre, its dark surface glistening faintly in the firelight, and within it rested a man cloaked in death's eternal embrace. His features were pale and unmoving, a sharp contrast to the vibrant energy that swirled ominously around him.

A guard stepped forward, his gloved hand cradling a small box. With reverence and precision, he opened it to reveal a red stone, glowing faintly as if it held the heartbeat of some ancient power. The light from the torches danced across its surface, making it pulse like a flicker of forbidden life.

With a careful hand, he placed the stone on the dead man's chest, where it seemed to settle as though it belonged there. The chants swelled, echoing into the cold void of the night, and for a moment, the air grew heavy, charged with something unseen.

Then, as if honouring the stone's mysterious power, the guards moved in unison to seal the coffin shut. The heavy lid descended, its finality echoing like a thunderclap in the silence, bringing an impenetrable darkness to both the man and the enigmatic stone. Yet in that darkness, the night itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting, as if knowing that nothing buried ever truly rests.

𓋹𓂀

ENGLAND, PRESENT DAY

A deafening roar filled the air as a massive drill tore through the ancient wall, sending shards of stone tumbling to the ground. The grinding sound echoed in the confined space, and when the dust began to settle, two men stepped forward, their torches casting flickering light into the yawning void ahead.

The flames illuminated rows upon rows of coffins, perfectly aligned, their surfaces weathered by time but unyielding in their silent presence. The men exchanged uneasy glances as their torchlight danced across the eerie scene.

"What the hell is this?" one of them muttered, his voice laced with both awe and fear.

"I don't know," the other replied, his words almost swallowed by the oppressive stillness.

They stood frozen, their breaths shallow, as if the very air within the chamber was waiting for something to stir. The discovery felt monumental, yet deeply unsettling, like a secret that should have remained buried.

By the next day, the world buzzed with the revelation. Television screens blared with images of both London and Egypt, the connection between the two shrouded in mystery. News anchors spoke in urgent tones, recounting the stories of knights who had invaded Egypt centuries ago. Among the scattered relics, some of the coffins were found submerged in water, their dark surfaces reflecting history's forgotten whispers.

Speculation ran wild, but no answer came. What lay beneath the surface—of the coffins, of the past—seemed far from resting, leaving the world to wonder what had truly been unearthed.

The dim glow of work lamps illuminated the dusty tomb, where workers toiled diligently, their voices low as they exchanged words over the discovery of the day. The rhythmic clink of tools against stone filled the air, echoing in the hollow chamber.

A figure in a crisp, tailored suit appeared at the entrance, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the stone floor. Behind him trailed a small group of workers, their faces stern and focused, their presence immediately commanding attention. As the suited man moved further inside, his sharp gaze swept over the workers, who momentarily paused under his scrutinizing eye.

"Clear them out, please," the man said, his voice calm yet resolute, cutting through the ambient noise like a blade.

One of his men stepped forward, raising his voice to address the workers. "Ladies and gentlemen, please stop what you're doing. The train tunnel has been rerouted north of here. We are now taking control of this site. Please collect your tools and gear and exit immediately."

A wave of confusion rippled through the workers. They exchanged uncertain glances, murmuring amongst themselves, their tools hovering in mid-motion. Some hesitated, reluctant to leave, their shock plain as others began packing their belongings with reluctance.

Meanwhile, the man in the suit strode deeper into the tomb, his steps unhurried but purposeful. His eyes caught on a faded, yet intricate mark etched into the ancient wall—something that seemed to radiate an aura of power and mystery. "Oi! Excuse me. Excuse me!" The indignant shout of the head worker broke through the silence, and he hurried after the suited man, his boots kicking up clouds of dust. "This is my site. What do you think you're doing?"

The suited man stopped but did not turn. With calm detachment, he withdrew an envelope from his inner pocket and handed it to the head worker, finally meeting his eyes with an air of finality. "Evacuate your men," he said evenly. "We'll take it from here."

Before the head worker could form a protest, two men from the suited man's entourage stepped forward, gently but firmly guiding him away. The suited man continued his advance, his attention drawn back to the enormous, ancient marking that dominated the wall—a design unmistakably Egyptian, its intricate carvings whispering of secrets long buried.

"The past cannot remain buried forever. In my lifetime, I have unearthed many ancient mysteries. At last, this tomb reveals antiquity's darkest secret. A secret erased from history and forgotten to time." 

"Prince Ahmanis."

The desert sun blazed high above, its golden rays casting an unforgiving heat across the vast expanse of Egypt. The sands shimmered like molten gold, rippling with the mirage of distant oases. Amid this relentless landscape, two figures clashed with intensity, their weapons gleaming in the fierce light as they moved in a rhythmic dance of battle.

Ahmanis, the prince of the desert kingdom, stood tall and commanding, his chiselled features reflecting the strength of his lineage. His dark, almond-shaped eyes burned with focus, their depths as unfathomable as the night sky. Loose strands of jet-black hair clung to his brow, dampened by the sweat that glistened on his bronzed skin. A faint scar graced his cheek—a subtle mark of past battles, a testament to his courage.

The prince's finely honed physique moved with effortless grace, each motion deliberate and precise as he wielded his weapon. His loose linen garments, dyed the colour of rich earth, clung to him, swirling with the desert breeze as he pivoted and parried. The golden cuff adorning his wrist caught the sunlight, a reminder of his royal heritage.

His opponent struck again, sand flying as their feet shifted in the dunes. Ahmanis deflected the attack with a sharp upward motion of his blade, the clang of metal ringing through the air. His lips curved into a faint, confident smile—one that spoke of skill and experience.

With a quick step forward, he twisted his weapon, forcing his opponent back. The desert seemed to hold its breath, the hot winds carrying the sound of their struggle as if nature itself watched in awe of the handsome prince who fought as if he were born of both sand and fire.

"Handsome, cunning, and ruthless. Sole heir to the throne of Egypt." 

Ahmanis approached the throne where his father, the mighty Pharaoh, sat in regal splendour. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, and golden light streamed through the towering columns of the hall, casting long shadows across the polished stone floor.

With graceful precision, Ahmanis lowered himself to one knee, bowing his head in reverence. His dark hair fell forward, brushing against his tanned cheeks as he placed a clenched fist over his heart—a gesture of unwavering loyalty and respect. The Pharaoh, adorned in elaborate robes and a crown encrusted with gleaming jewels, gazed down at his son, his expression a mix of stern authority and quiet pride.

"The pharaoh's kingdom would one day be his to rule without mercy or fear. And Ahmanis would be worshiped as a living god."

The Pharaoh's smile was one of quiet pride as he regarded his son, a glint of admiration in his gaze. His strong presence filled the room, but it was the moment Ahmanis turned away from his father that the air shifted. 

It was then that his gaze fell upon her—the woman. She stood at the side, draped in flowing linen robes the colour of the desert at dusk, soft and ethereal against the harshness of the sun. Her skin was a rich, warm bronze, kissed by the light yet untouched by the oppressive heat. Her dark hair, braided with fine golden threads, cascaded down her back in graceful waves.

But it was her eyes that ensnared him—deep, liquid pools of onyx that seemed to capture the very essence of the desert night, both mysterious and mesmerizing. For a fleeting moment, their gazes locked, and a silence stretched between them, thick and tangible, like the weight of something unspoken. She smiled at him, a slow, knowing curve of her lips, her expression soft yet tinged with something more—an invitation, perhaps, or the promise of an unspoken understanding.

Ahmanis held her gaze, his breath faltering ever so slightly as something stirred within him. His heart, usually so composed and steady, seemed to quicken in his chest. A subtle tension swirled in the space between them, quiet but undeniable, like the crackling of a flame just waiting to ignite. In the soft shade of the covering, with the desert sun blazing above them, the world seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of them—bound by an invisible force, a connection neither could ignore.

For a moment, it was as if time had paused, holding its breath along with them.

"Her name was Satiah—a healer of beauty, wisdom, and strength. With a cunning mind and a merciful heart, she was a woman who could mend both body and soul. Ahmanis loved her deeply, though their love was secret, burning like the sun in stolen moments. Despite the risks, he knew she was the one he would rule with, his equal, his partner in both life and destiny."

Ahmanis stood beside his father, both gazing out at the vast desert horizon. The sun hung low, casting a golden glow over the pyramids as the warm breeze rustled through the air, carrying the scent of earth and distant spices. For a moment, they shared the silence, the weight of their thoughts settling in the stillness around them.

Ahmanis turned to face his father, noticing that his gaze was fixed not on the horizon, but somewhere behind them. Following his father's line of sight, Ahmanis's eyes fell upon a woman—a woman promised to the Pharaoh. She smiled shyly, her lips curving with a softness that spoke of both beauty and reserved grace. Beside her, Satiah stood, bowing as the others did, her presence quietly commanding, yet humble in the ritual.

Ahmanis's heart stirred, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn't quite grasp. He turned back to his father, but the image of the woman lingered in his thoughts, like a distant echo that wouldn't fade. The world around them felt suddenly distant, the gentle breeze unable to cool the heat rising within him.

𓋹𓂀

The air was thick with the desperate cries of the woman, her screams echoing through the kingdom, sharp and raw as she laboured to bring life into the world. Two women assisted her, their hands steady and skilled, but it was Satiah who remained at the woman's side, her calm presence a soothing contrast to the pain and chaos of birth. She whispered words of comfort, guiding the woman with gentle hands, easing her through the agony with practiced care.

When the baby was born, Satiah carefully wrapped the boy in a soft blanket and, with reverence, handed him to the Pharaoh. His eyes softened with pride as he cradled the child, his royal gaze filled with the weight of a future already written.

Outside, Ahmanis stood in the shadow of the doorway, his jaw clenched, watching the scene unfold. His heart burned with a quiet fury, a fire that smouldered beneath his calm exterior. The sight of his father holding the child, the heir to the throne, stirred a jealousy he couldn't suppress—a feeling that twisted and churned within him, filling him with an anger that had no place in the moment. He watched, helpless, as the future of the kingdom took shape in his father's arms, while his own heart remained a battlefield.

"But Pharaoh had another son. Ahmanis was scared as the thought of the boy, would inherit his destiny, and wouldn't rule with the woman he loved more than Egypt itself. And Ahmanis understood power was not given. It had to be taken."

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By: SilverMist707

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