The morning they left the Marrakesh Haven, the air carried the scent of desert wind and drying herbs. Jake stood by the doorway, his ribs pulling less painfully now that the Mend-Knot had settled. Liora was beside him, quiet and composed, though the unnatural stiffness in her shoulders told a clearer story.
Master Khalil stepped out of the inner chamber, robes whispering across the stone floor like wind over sand.
"You walk already," he said, eyeing Jake with faint disapproval. "A foolish habit."
Jake managed a weak smile. "We don't have much choice."
Khalil hummed. "Choice," he repeated, "is an illusion you cling to when the alternative is fear."
He looked between them. "But still—I cannot keep you here. The Order's eyes turn quickly."
Liora bowed her head. "Thank you for saving us. Jake wouldn't have survived without you."
Khalil raised an eyebrow. "And you think you would have?"
She didn't answer.
He stepped closer, placing a warm, heavy hand on Liora's shoulder. "Your path has already begun to devour you, Hafsa."
Liora froze.
Jake blinked. Hafsa?
He looked at her, confused, but Khalil continued before she could intervene.
"You hide your name as though you can outrun its bones. But your Arcana knows you. The Death Path knows its children."
His eyes softened. "You return to Egypt, yes?"
Liora swallowed hard. "We have to."
Khalil nodded, then turned to Jake. "Stay close to her. Not because she is fragile—she is not—but because she has forgotten how to be held by her own people."
Jake frowned. "We're being hunted. How exactly are we getting to Egypt? We can't exactly go through border security with… all of this."
Khalil's lips curved into the faintest smile—a man amused that someone believed borders meant anything.
"There are doors in the world that men did not build," he said. "And some of them open for those who carry the Arcana."
He stepped aside and tapped the floor with the end of his cane.
A line of ancient symbols flared to life, spiralling outward like cracked bone.
"Invisible to ordinary eyes. But not to yours."
Jake's breath caught as the tiles split along the symbols, sliding apart. Beneath them, a descending spiral staircase appeared, lit by pale blue fire that cast no shadow.
"What is that?" Jake whispered.
"A Sandway. An old one. It will carry you beneath the Sahara, then open near Giza. Walk carefully. Its tunnels remember every footstep."
Liora inclined her head. "We're grateful."
Khalil sighed with the weary patience of a man who had seen centuries pass and knew how little thanks were worth compared to fate.
"Gratitude is wind," he said, voice almost affectionate. He lowered his heavy hand from Liora's shoulder. "But survival—" He tapped Jake's chest, the movement abrupt. "—is stone. Walk in stone, Jake Faust."
Jake nodded. "We will."
Khalil stepped back as the two descended the stairwell. The floor sealed over them with a whisper—like a tomb closing.
The cold that met them in the tunnels was the cold of old stone and forgotten catacombs. It smelled faintly of petrified flowers and dust that might have once been bone.
Liora led the way, their footsteps echoing softly.
She didn't speak for nearly an hour. Jake watched her closely—graceful, yes, but intensely tense. Each step seemed a reminder of something she didn't want to remember.
Eventually, he broke the silence. "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
She wasn't. There was a tightness at the corner of her mouth he'd never seen before, and her hands clenched and unclenched without rhythm.
Jake didn't push. They walked until a faint glow of dusty gold began to shimmer ahead, filtering through cracks in the tunnel ceiling.
"The exit is close," Liora murmured.
Jake nodded. "And after that… the pyramids?"
"Yes."
Her voice shook slightly, and she masked it too late.
Jake stopped walking. "Liora. What's wrong?"
She didn't turn. "Nothing."
"Liora."
"…It's just been a long time," she whispered. "That's all."
But Jake wasn't convinced.
When they finally emerged through the sandstone slit into the open desert, the hot air hit him like a physical wave.
Liora went still. Her eyes locked on the horizon, where the three great pyramids rose—ancient, immovable, indifferent.
Her expression—usually a carefully constructed wall—flickered. Fear.
Jake had never seen genuine fear on her face. But she shoved it down almost instantly.
"We should go," she said, brushing past him, trying to hide how her steps faltered.
Jake followed quietly. He didn't understand the weight, but he felt it. Her silence was heavy enough to shift the sand.
By the time they stood at the base of the Great Pyramid, the sun had dipped behind the stone, casting long, purple shadows over the desert.
Liora's breath hitched—almost imperceptibly—but Jake caught it.
"Liora… if you don't want to do this, we can—"
"No," she said quickly. Too quickly. "This is the only way."
Her hand reached inside her cloak. She pulled out an obsidian dagger—black, glassy, and carved with funerary glyphs.
Jake stared. "That's—"
"A key," she said softly.
She pressed the blade to her palm.
"Liora—"
"It's fine."
She cut. Blood pooled across her hand, dark and thick. She pressed her palm to a specific stone block—one worn stone among millions—which radiated a faint coldness that made the hairs on his arms rise.
The pyramid trembled. A deep groaning rumble shifted through the stone, and a crack split open beneath their feet like a massive door unlocking from the inside. Wind surged upward—cold, ancient, smelling of incense and burial chambers.
Jake's heart hammered.
Liora whispered a phrase in Arabic, her voice trembling with reverence and dread:
"Ana Hafsa Al-Samawi… Ana bint al-Mors… iftah al-bawaba."
I am Hafsa Al-Samawi.
Daughter of Death.
Open the gate.
The sand swirled violently, and a downward passage appeared, lit with blue-white flame.
Jake stepped back, stunned.
"Liora—that's your—?"
She cut him off. "Later. Please."
He swallowed hard and nodded. They stepped inside.
The air inside was freezing. The walls were smooth limestone covered in dark, judging sigils. The light shifted like a heavy, slow heartbeat—dimming and brightening in a relentless rhythm. Jake felt the pressure around them, not air, but judgment. The silence was so complete that he could hear the frantic rhythm of his own pulse hammering against his eardrums.
Liora walked with her head lowered, tension creasing her shoulders again.
They didn't walk far before shadows moved ahead—not unnatural ones, but men. Guards.
They were dressed in modern armour shaped to resemble ancient Egyptian warriors, with gleaming bronze plates and black linen wraps. Crescent-shaped blades were crossed at their backs.
Six of them stepped forward at once.
"Halt," the lead guard commanded. "Identify yourself."
Jake's pulse spiked. Instinctively, he raised his hands, unsure whether to back away or run.
Liora stepped forward before he could. Her voice was steady, but Jake could see the subtle tremor in her fingers.
She pulled back her hood.
"My name is Liora Kaine," she said quietly.
The guards didn't react.
Then she took a deep breath—the deepest Jake had seen her take—and spoke again.
"My true name is Hafsa Al-Samawi."
Every guard stiffened. The lead one's eyes widened, disbelief breaking through discipline.
"Princess Hafsa…?"
Princess?
Jake's head snapped toward her. The woman he had known—Liora Kaine—felt like a ghost, a simple traveller's disguise discarded in the sand. He was suddenly, brutally aware that he understood nothing about the girl he had been travelling with.
Liora—no, Hafsa—lowered her gaze.
"Daughter of Alim Al-Samawi… Heir of the House of Mors."
Silence swept the hall. A heavy, suffocating silence that made Jake's lungs tighten.
The guard dropped to one knee, head bowed. "Your Highness."
Liora didn't look at Jake. She only whispered,
"…We're home."
The torches guttered—and the doors behind the guards began to open