Amara pressed her forehead gently against the cold airplane window, her eyes following the faint streaks of light that trailed behind the clouds as the aircraft cut through the night. The hum of the engines was constant, almost hypnotic, yet her mind refused to rest. She had been freed, yes — but it didn't feel like freedom. There was something hollow about the way Chief Roman's men had escorted her to the airport, their silence heavier than words.
She turned the small bracelet on her wrist — a delicate band of bronze that Chuka had given her at the dig site, before everything unraveled. It was tarnished now, but she held onto it like a lifeline. Every time her fingers brushed over the tiny, spiral engravings, she remembered his face in that glass chamber — the reflection of worry and defiance mingled in his eyes.
Is he still there? she wondered. The thought made her chest tighten. She had begged her father to let him go, but Chief Roman's response was curt: "Some discoveries come with a cost, Amara. Chuka knew that."
The plane trembled briefly as it passed through turbulence. She closed her eyes, gripping the armrest, trying to steady her breathing. But when she opened them again, she caught something strange in the faint reflection of the glass — a shimmer, like liquid gold, swirling behind her reflection. For a moment she thought it was just the cabin light catching the surface wrong, but then the shimmer moved, coiling into a faint outline — a mask.
Her pulse quickened. The mask looked eerily similar to the one they had found sealed within the Nok chamber — the same hollow eyes, the same thin lips. But before she could react, the lights flickered, and the image vanished.
Amara turned quickly, scanning the cabin. Everyone else seemed calm — a child sleeping against his mother, a businessman flipping through a magazine, the stewardess pouring coffee two rows ahead. Was it in her head?
She leaned back, trying to suppress the rising fear. Whatever it was, it felt like the relics hadn't just been left behind in that excavation. Something had followed them — or followed her.
She took a shaky breath and reached into her bag, pulling out her journal. The last entry she had written was weeks ago, before the arrest. With trembling hands, she scribbled:
> "It's not over. I think the Amour can still reach us. Even from miles away. I saw it again tonight — not the object, but the presence. Maybe Chuka was right — maybe it was never meant to be moved."
She paused, tapping the pen against the paper. The words felt heavy, prophetic. Outside, the sky was vast and endless, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching — waiting.
A soft chime broke her thoughts. The pilot's voice came through the intercom:
"Ladies and gentlemen, we've begun our descent into Manhattan. Please fasten your seatbelts."
Amara straightened up, glancing out the window one last time. The city lights below glittered like scattered gold, but instead of comfort, she felt a deep unease. Manhattan wasn't home — it was her father's world, a place built on secrets and ambition. And she knew, deep down, that whatever haunted that relic was waiting for her there.
As the wheels touched the runway, Amara whispered softly under her breath,
"Chuka… hold on. I'll find a way."
And somewhere, buried beneath layers of containment glass and corporate security, a faint pulse stirred in the relic — as if it had heard her.