Chapter 5: The Sanctuary
The wooden door closed behind Khafre with a final echo, sealing off the outside world. He found himself on the threshold, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the new lighting. The chamber opening before him was neither a dungeon nor an audience hall. It was an underground world, a cavernous grotto that smelled of damp earth, sweet wine, sweat, and the unmistakable, potent musk of beasts and sex.
The air was warm and heavy, dense with a primordial energy that made the hair on Khafre's arms stand on end. The space was vast, the ceiling lost in a gloom punctuated by the flickering light of bronze braziers that burned with a ghostly, greenish fire. In the center, there was a large, circular arena of golden sand, surrounded by a channel of slow, dark water. Small waterfalls silently tumbled down the rock walls, feeding lush patches of tropical vegetation that grew in the corners, an impossible oasis beneath the desert.
But it wasn't the architecture that paralyzed him. It was the scene.
This was not a place of governance; it was a temple of debauchery. In rock-carved alcoves, barely concealed by translucent silk curtains, silhouettes moved. Court nobles, both men and women, indulged in nameless pleasures with slaves of exotic beauty. I saw a visier with a braided beard being attended to by two young slave girls while watching the main arena with a glazed, satisfied look.
The arena itself was the main stage. There, the distinction between human and beast had been completely blurred. I saw a noblewoman, adorned only in gold jewelry, reclining against the flank of a massive griffin, her body trembling as the creature's rough tongue tracked across her belly. Not far away, a muscular slave was being mounted by a minotaur like creature, his face a mask of pain and terrified ecstasy.
My mind, that of the reincarnated man, struggled to catalogue the horror and depravity. But the beast, Lykaon, merely observed with a cold, predatory curiosity. This was not sin. It was nature in its most honest form, stripped of the thin layer of mortal morality. It was a hunting ground.
'So this is what the powerful do when they think no one sees them,' I thought from the darkness of Khafre's shadow. 'They take off their masks and worship their most basic instincts. Pathetic. And fascinating.'
Khafre's eyes, wide with shock and a growing excitement he dared not admit, searched for the royalty. He found them easily. At one end of the arena, there was a raised dais, a balcony of carved obsidian that overlooked the entire scene. There, reclining on purple velvet cushions, were Farah and Opala.
Farah, the Queen Mother, held a gold goblet, her dark eyes scanning the scene with the detachment of a scholar observing an experiment. Beside her, Queen Opala was a vision of sensual indolence.
Her white linen gown was so fine it was nearly transparent, revealing the silhouette of her golden body. One of her hands lazily stroked the head of her panther, Sebastilion, which lay at her feet. The great beast was restless, its muscles tensing, a low growl rumbling in its chest. Its yellow eyes were not on the arena; they were fixed on Khafre's shadow.
It could sense me.
It was Farah who spoke, her voice cutting through the charged air without needing to raise it. "Approach, Khafre of the Killer Shadow."
Khafre, jolted from his stupor, obeyed. He walked around the edge of the arena, his sandals sinking slightly into the golden sand, until he was at the foot of the dais. He bowed, but Farah dismissed it with a wave of her hand.
"This is our sanctuary," she said, her voice soft but resonating with power. "A place where we explore the fundamental truth. That the gods, the beasts, and ourselves are driven by the same primary forces: power, hunger, and desire."
Queen Opala finally moved, her body uncoiling like a lazy feline. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, her emerald green eyes fixed on Khafre, but I felt her gaze pierce him, searching for the darkness that hid behind him.
"You have shown that you can command death, sorcerer," she purred, her voice like honey and poison. "But death is a simple end. Dominance is an art. We are told your shadow can subdue beasts. We wish to see it."
She pointed with a jeweled finger toward a large alcove at the far end of the arena, sealed by a heavy bronze grate. Behind the bars, something moved in the darkness, an impatient snort echoing through the chamber.
"There is a creature in there," Opala continued, "a gift from a distant kingdom. A bicornio. An incarnation of untamed virility and fury. Neither our best tamers nor our most powerful beast gods have been able to approach it. Its instinct is too strong, its power too wild."
A slow, challenging smile curved her lips. "They say your shadow dominates beasts. Go, Khafre. And dominate that one."
The challenge was laid down. Khafre, with pride burning in his eyes, saw his opportunity. Dominating a legendary beast in front of the Queen... it would be the ultimate proof of his power. He swelled with arrogance.
"As you command, my Queen," he said, his voice ringing with a confidence he didn't entirely feel.
He turned and walked toward the center of the arena. At a signal from Farah, two slaves opened the heavy bronze grate. From the darkness, the creature emerged. It was magnificent and terrifying. A stallion the size of a warhorse, with fur so black it seemed to absorb the light. From its forehead, not one, but two sharp horns, like spirals of obsidian, curved backward. And as it walked into the light, Khafre saw with a jolt what made it a legend: two massive, red, semi-erect penises hung from its groin.
The bicornio snorted, a cloud of steam pouring from its nostrils, its red eyes fixed on the small human who dared to stand in its arena.
Khafre didn't flinch. He raised his hands, his fingers tracing complex patterns in the air. The golden hieroglyphs of subjugation magic began to glow around him, weaving a net of power.
"Kneel before me, beast!" he commanded, casting the spell. A net of golden light flew towards the bicornio, designed to bind its will and force its submission.
'What a fool,' I thought with an almost lazy contempt. 'He tries to chain an earthquake with silk threads.'
The bicornio didn't even move. It simply snorted again. A wave of pure life force and primal virility emanated from it. It wasn't magic; it was pure instinct. Khafre's net of golden light disintegrated on contact, dissolving into harmless motes before even touching its skin.
Khafre froze, his eyes wide with disbelief. His spell, one of the most powerful of his house, had been nullified as if it were nothing. The bicornio lowered its head, scraped a hoof in the sand, and prepared to charge.
From the dais, I heard Opala's soft, disappointed whisper. "What a pity."
The beast's patience within me finally ran out. This idiot was not only about to die; he was embarrassing me. The Queens had not invited a parlor sorcerer. They had invited a monster. And it was time for the true guest to make his entrance.
Khafre's shadow, which had been motionless at his feet, began to bleed into the golden sand. It ceased to be a mere patch and became a well of tangible blackness. A low growl, not audible, but a psychic vibration that shook the chamber to its foundations, emanated from it.
All the beasts in the sanctuary fell silent. The griffin lowered its head. The minotaur stopped moving. The panther Sebastilion cowered at its mistress's feet, emitting a low, submissive whine. Even the bicornio, halfway through its charge, stopped dead in its tracks, its red eyes now fixed not on Khafre, but on the growing darkness at his feet, an expression of primal fear replacing its fury.
The Queens on the dais leaned forward, their eyes fixed on the anomaly, their faces a mixture of astonishment, fear, and an almost orgasmic anticipation.
Khafre turned around slowly, his face pale with terror as he felt the power emanating from his own shadow, a power he had never felt so unleashed. He saw the blackness swirl, grow, and begin to take a form he knew all too well.
The bait had fulfilled its purpose. It was time for the predator to claim the stage.