The headquarters of Vance's Watch was an unglamorous, third-floor flat in a perpetually drizzly corner of Bloomsbury, London. It was registered under Jules Reynard's name and paid for by a series of shell companies that disguised the substantial proceeds from the dismantled Argentum Society's seized assets—a form of poetic justice Elara found satisfying.
Six months had passed since the Panthéon confrontation. Monsieur Dubois was safely confined, the Regulator was fused and stabilized within its government vault, and the world had settled back into its delusion of order.
Elara Dubois, now calling herself Mademoiselle Elara Vance (a quiet homage to the alchemist), sat hunched over a work table that groaned under the weight of archaic maps, newly acquired intelligence dossiers, and Jules's inevitable overflow of loose newspaper clippings. The chaos was more organized now, a direct result of her influence on Jules's habits, but the atmosphere was still heavy with the scent of stale coffee and desperation.
She was tracking the fractional movements of five known Argentum Society members who had fled Paris. Their movements were slow, fragmented, and seemingly meaningless—a quiet reorganization, perhaps, but not an immediate threat. Elara believed the danger lay not in what they were doing, but in what they were ignoring. The Society had vanished from Europe precisely when the political fallout had died down.
Jules, meanwhile, was pounding away at his antique typewriter, hammering out a scathing editorial on the British government's colonial policies in India, the perfect cover for his constant global correspondence.
"Elara," Jules called out over the racket of the keys, "I'm receiving too much static on the shortwave from Florence. Laurent's signal is fading again. Either they finally fixed the radio jamming near the Palazzo Pitti, or the Professor is attempting to cook eggs on his transmitter again."
"It's the former," Elara replied without looking up, her finger tracing a convoluted money trail from a Swiss trust to a newly formed, Egyptian antiquities fund. "Professor Laurent would never waste a perfectly good transmitter on something as pedestrian as an egg."
✉️ The Encoded Warning
Just as Elara identified a significant, recent withdrawal from the Egyptian fund—a movement too large for mere art acquisition—the shortwave radio on the shelf crackled to life, overcoming the static with a sudden, sharp clarity.
Laurent's voice, though faint and strained, was unmistakable: "The Watch must regard the South Wind with caution. The river flows only where the sun permits."
A series of rapid, modulated tones followed—a digital cipher Elara had created based on the rhythmic clicks of an obscure, 17th-century astronomical clock. She quickly snatched her pad and pencil, her scholarly training taking over as she furiously transcribed the message.
Jules stopped typing immediately, recognizing the shift from casual update to emergency alert.
Elara finished, her pencil snapping the tip. She quickly translated the tone sequence using her personal key. It wasn't a standard message; it was a file attachment, compressed into pure data: the photograph of a document.
She developed the transcribed data into an image using a small, chemical kit she kept hidden in an old telescope casing. The resulting photograph was of an official, British Colonial Office document, heavily stamped and marked "TOP SECRET."
The title on the document was chilling: Requisition Order 127/B: Transfer of Sensitive Historical Assets to Overseas Administration.
The text detailed the immediate transfer of a single, highly sensitive artifact from the Paris Ministry of Culture's Archives (where the Regulator was supposedly secured) to the British High Commission in Cairo, Egypt.
"They've moved the Regulator?" Jules asked, leaning over her shoulder, his earlier cynicism replaced by genuine alarm.
Elara shook her head, tracing the item description. "The Regulator is a fused, nine-foot-tall, inert iron cabinet. This requisition describes a 'small, segmented stone tablet, approximately 40 kilograms.' It's a smokescreen, Jules. The Regulator hasn't moved."
She pointed to the signature at the bottom: an obscure name, Dr. Alistair Thorne, Principal Egyptologist.
"Who is Thorne?"
"A ghost," Elara murmured, flipping through her dossiers. "He was purged from the Royal Archaeological Society three years ago for unethical excavation practices. Obsessed with the esoteric science behind Egyptian engineering—specifically, the control of the Nile's annual floods. He was close to Elias Argent's historical circles, but too reckless for Dubois's refined tastes."
🇪🇬 The Cairo Nexus
Elara looked again at the document. Near Thorne's signature, Laurent had placed a barely visible, meticulously drawn mark: a tiny, archaic Egyptian hieroglyph known to scholars as the 'Sema Tawy'—the symbol of the unification of Upper and Lower Egypt, almost always associated with the control of water flow.
"This is the key, Jules," Elara said, her voice dropping to a low intensity. "Laurent is warning us that Thorne isn't trying to steal the Paris Regulator; he's using the requisition to make us think he is. Thorne is leading the reorganized Society cell, and he is confirming the existence of a second Regulator—one that controls the Nile's hydrological nexus."
Jules ran a hand through his hair, the magnitude of the new threat dawning on him. "A hydrological Regulator... it wouldn't just cause a minor earthquake, Elara. It could cause a famine. A war. If they can control the Nile, they control every resource from Alexandria to Khartoum."
"Exactly. Vance was not the only alchemist to master the stabilization of Ley Lines. The Egyptians were masters of applied geology. The Nile is the single largest ley line convergence in the entire region. If Dubois sought power over time (Eternity), Thorne seeks power over life itself (Sustenance)."
🚂 Planning the Infiltration
Elara knew they had no time to waste. Thorne had already secured official cover and was likely en route to Cairo. The only way to stop him was to beat him to the nexus point.
"Jules, we need passage to Cairo, immediately. We need an angle that puts us near the British Administration and the local press, but gives us access to the historical foundations," Elara instructed, already tearing a page from her large map book.
"I can be a correspondent covering the growing nationalist unrest in the Egyptian protectorate," Jules replied, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the chase. "It's the perfect distraction. I can use my London press card to secure diplomatic passage and protection."
"Good. My cover will be that of a consultant Egyptologist, hired by you to provide historical context for your exposé—a necessity given Thorne's reputation in the field."
Elara then located the specific street address listed on the requisition order: an obscure administrative office near the Cairo Citadel. She cross-referenced this with her archived maps of the Citadel's foundations.
"The Citadel sits on the Muqattam Hills—the highest point in Cairo, and the most strategically important," Elara explained, pointing to the map. "But beneath it are immense, forgotten water cisterns and conduits built by the Fatimids a thousand years ago. That is where the Regulator will be hidden."
Their mission was clear: Infiltrate Cairo, locate Thorne, and stabilize the Nile Regulator before he could weaponize the river.
As Jules booked their tickets on the Orient Express out of Paris and through the Balkans—the quickest route to the Levant—Elara packed a small bag. It contained the tools of her trade: precise instruments, chemical testing kits, a change of clothes, and a new, heavy leather journal.
She looked around the cluttered London flat, the safe haven of the last six months. They were leaving the quiet, ordered world of scholarly supervision and plunging back into the dangerous, sun-baked world of ancient power and ruthless ambition.
"I'll send Laurent a final coded message detailing the plan," Elara said, zipping her bag. "He can't come with us, but his research will be our only lifeline."
Jules grabbed his own travel bag, tossing in a fresh roll of film and a pistol he'd acquired during the interim months. "The South Wind is blowing, Elara. Let's see if this Thorne fellow can handle a London reporter and a French curator."
The two allies left the flat, locking the door behind them, ready to start the long, dangerous journey across Europe and into the heart of the Egyptian desert.