The hum of the containment chamber faded into silence.
Amara pressed her palm against the glass, her heartbeat drumming in her ears. The Amour floated quietly now, golden veins dimmed to a faint glow. Whatever she had seen — the visions, the voice, the shifting faces — it had all gone still. But her mind wouldn't stop replaying the last thing she heard:
> "The blood of the maker returns…"
The words looped in her head like an echo, heavy and cryptic. She turned slowly toward the console beside the containment glass. Lines of data scrolled endlessly across the monitors — energy readings, runic translations, biothermal scans. Her father's scientists had been documenting the Amour's behavior in excruciating detail.
Amara's eyes caught on one section of the report, half-hidden under layers of coded text. She clicked it open.
PROJECT: ECHO-PRIME
Source DNA match – 82.9% correlation.
Subject ID: CN-13
She frowned. The initials were familiar. CN. Her stomach tightened. Chuka Nwankwo.
She scrolled further, her breath catching as she read the next line:
> "Subject's lineage contains ancestral gene markers consistent with ancient Nok priesthood. Traces of catalytic resonance detected during artifact activation — possible link between bloodline and Amour response."
The rest of the document blurred as her eyes filled with tears. Chuka. He wasn't just an archaeologist uncovering the past — he was part of it. The relic hadn't reacted to him by chance; it had recognized him.
Her father must have known.
She leaned closer to the glass, staring at the Amour's faint glow. "You weren't calling to me," she whispered. "You were calling to him."
The air around her seemed to tighten. The containment room grew colder, the soft lights flickering. Then the Amour pulsed once — not violently, but like a heartbeat answering her words.
She stumbled back, clutching her bracelet — the one Chuka had given her. Its bronze spirals gleamed faintly in the golden light. She remembered him laughing the day he gave it to her at the dig site. 'It's from the outer wall of the chamber,' he had said. 'It carries part of their story.'
Now, the same spirals were glowing.
Her breath quickened. The bracelet felt warm — almost alive — and the pattern began to move under her fingers, rearranging itself into the same inscription she had just seen on the data logs:
> CN-13. The Blood of the Maker.
Her pulse raced. The Amour wasn't just showing her things; it was responding to her connection to him.
A surge of dread washed through her. Her father must have discovered this long before she did — perhaps even before Chuka's arrest. That's why he'd kept him detained, why he'd transferred the relic here in secret.
It wasn't just research.
It was harvest.
She spun toward the elevator, panic rising. If her father was using Chuka's blood to unlock the relic, then Chuka wasn't just imprisoned — he was the key, and Roman would never let him go.
As she stepped inside the elevator, the lights dimmed again. The soft hum of the machinery deepened, the walls around her vibrating faintly. A whisper coiled through the air, faint but unmistakable — Chuka's voice, strained, distant:
> "Amara… don't… let him… open it…"
"Chuka?" she gasped, pressing against the elevator wall. "Where are you? I saw you— in the Amour— what did he do to you?"
Static swallowed the voice, leaving only a low pulse — the same heartbeat-like rhythm that had haunted the house all night.
Then, from nowhere, another voice layered over it — smooth, deep, and terrifyingly calm. Her father's.
> "I told you to stay in your room."
Amara's eyes shot up. Chief Roman stood waiting as the elevator doors slid open into the upper hall. His expression was unreadable, but his presence filled the space like gravity.
He took a step forward. "You've been downstairs."
She said nothing. Her mind was still racing, her pulse loud in her ears.
Roman's gaze drifted to her bracelet, which still glowed faintly beneath her trembling hand. "I see you found what you shouldn't have."
Her voice came out rough. "You knew. You knew about Chuka's bloodline — that he's connected to the Amour. You used him."
Roman didn't deny it. He simply studied her, his expression calm, almost pitying. "He is special, yes. The relic responds to his lineage — a gift buried in his blood. You can't imagine what that means for humanity."
"Humanity?" she spat. "You mean your company. You're turning him into a weapon!"
His jaw tightened. "I'm ensuring progress. The Nok priests imprisoned divine energy in stone — but we can liberate it. Perfect it. With his blood, the relic is waking. The world will thank me for it."
Amara took a step back, her breath shaking. "You're playing with something you can't control."
Roman's eyes hardened. "And yet, control is all I've ever had."
He gestured subtly toward the far end of the hall. Two guards stepped forward from the shadows. "You're tired, Amara. You've seen too much tonight. Go to your room. Rest."
She shook her head. "No. I'm done obeying you."
Before he could speak again, she turned and bolted down the corridor, her bare feet silent against the marble. The guards shouted, chasing after her, but she ducked into a side passage she remembered from childhood — one that led toward the library's service exit.
Behind her, the alarms began to hum again — low, mechanical, alive. And somewhere beneath the mansion, the Amour pulsed brighter, reacting not to her father… but to her fear for Chuka.
The storm outside had calmed, but thunder still rolled far in the distance — deep and slow, like something ancient stirring awake.
Amara pressed a hand against the glass wall as she ran past, seeing her reflection tremble beside her. But this time, she wasn't alone in it. Another reflection — Chuka's — flickered faintly beside hers, whispering through the hum:
> "Find me… before he does."
And then the reflection vanished.