Darkness swallowed him, and Heshtat knew no more.

  There was no horde of Desolate on his heels, no Dreaming Tide to chase him. There was no snapping of molten jaws on flesh, no hissing as steaming breath scorched skin or cracking of great bones splintering beneath powerful bites. It was… peaceful.

  He floated on tides of darkness, letting the currents of essence buffet him this way and that, prompting thoughts to bubble up and disappear as they wished. He couldn’t fight the feeling that he had something to do, some great purpose filling him with urgency, and yet he simply floated. Disconnected and unmoored.

  What was he doing here? And where was here, for that matter? But no, that wasn’t the right question. The swirling darkness snatched those thoughts away, discarding them on waves of shadow. What was his purpose? That question was allowed to linger, and Heshtat let his mind wander all over it, examining it from every angle.

  His purpose was gone, he knew that much. He’d been without true purpose for many a year now. That was why it had been getting harder to keep going. Why he had been making more mistakes, why he increasingly struggled to hold in his temper and exhaustion. He had been hanging onto an oath he had long since broken and expecting that to prop him up.

  But the darkness stayed silent, and to Heshtat it sounded like a rebuke. “Nobody acts without purpose,” it seemed to say. “What is yours?”

  And that was perhaps easier to answer than he expected. He wanted the Eye. That was why he was here! The Eye of Amin-Ra! Where was Maatkare, what had happen—

  But the dark tides rose over him again, and when they retreated, they took the thoughts with them. Once more Heshtat was left alone in darkness, suspended in nothingness to contemplate his purpose.

  His old oath was broken, but that did not mean he was without motivation. He had failed, but not through deliberate choice—he still wanted to protect his charge. He still wanted to protect her. But he couldn’t do it from afar. For a decade he had watched from the sidelines as things had only deteriorated.

  He had failed because his old oath had been steeped in lies. Lies from his pharaoh, who he was beginning to understand was not the man he’d once thought. Lies about the nature of the world, for there was clearly more to the threat of the Desolate than just a creeping terror out of the northern territories. And perhaps most fundamental; the lie that he could protect those he loved by sitting back and waiting for their adversaries to attack.

  He had spent near enough a decade waiting for enemies to make their move, and yet had he been ready if they had? If Senusret had banded together with the local-crime lords and decided to make their unofficial rule of the outer districts the official rule of the entirety of the city, would he have been able to stop them?

  No.

  So as he hung suspended in a sea of darkness, Heshtat let go of that old oath. He didn’t wish to protect Cleo because her father had sworn him to it—it had been long before that fateful day that she’d won his loyalty.

  The darkness seemed satisfied to let him play around with the thoughts, to mould and shape them until they fit together into a pattern they would accept. Once he managed to wrangle his thoughts into a coherent direction, he realised their truth. He wasn’t beholden to an ancient oath, given without true understanding, and that didn’t make his purpose any less profound in the present.

  It just changed it slightly. What he wanted now was to return to her and hear the truth from her lips. Not in triumph for its own sake, but because his victory here, his success, would give her the chance to prove his faith in her true.

  Because despite all that the years had stacked between them, despite the pain and loss and the gods forsaken yearning that he had lived with for days and weeks and months and years… he still believed in her. His Cleo, his queen—the smartest person he had ever known. The woman that would give herself away to a barbarous General if it secured the protection of her people. The woman that would endure a decade of ridicule from the very people she sacrificed for, just because it was her duty, and because it was the right thing to do.

  He had started to doubt her, and perhaps he still did in the back of his mind, but that was a doubt born of insecurity. He doubted that she would still love him, doubted that she would have the time or the patience or the need for him in her new life. But as he floated in the darkness on currents of essence, not for a single second did he doubt that she wanted what was best for her people.

  So that was his purpose. To return to his queen with the Eye of Amin-Ra, and to save their people from the deprivation they struggled against even now.

  With an old oath discarded and new purpose revealed, Heshtat was carried through the darkness and deposited back into the light.

  ***

  The room was nearly blinding, and it took several seconds for Heshtat to adjust to the sun glaring in through the low ceiling above. It was a chaotic mix, the purple light of the Other’s black sun clashing against the normal daylight of the Waking’s golden one.

  He stood in a small room, a single pedestal rising from the floor made from pure glass. A shallow bowl crowned the structure, and within rested what must have been the Eye of Amin-Ra. The room itself was barely tall enough for him to stand without stooping, though Maatkare would have been fine. It was clearly the top of the pyramid, the slanted walls reaching a pinnacle just over six feet above the floor.

  His eyes soon adjusted to the brightness, pupils contracting far past their previous mortal limits thanks to his channel with Bestat. Looking to his right, he saw his friend standing there, looking relieved to see him.

  “Worried I wouldn’t make it?” Heshtat asked wryly.

  “Yes.” The frank admission caused Heshtat to wince. “The test was about purpose.”

  He didn’t need to say more. Heshtat just nodded. “And I found mine.”

  When he looked up, he saw Maatkare wearing a proud smile on his jovial face, his brown locks haloed by the golden sun shining in through the transparent walls. He had no idea how that was possible, because he knew this section of the pyramid was crowned in gold from the outside, but nevertheless, he didn’t begrudge the temple its mysteries.

  The view was stunning. He turned to survey the oasis below, taking note of the serene lake, the jagged cliffs ringing the island and protecting the verdant jungle from the rushing waters of the Nikea beyond. He couldn’t see them from here, but he knew they were there, nonetheless. A memory hit him then, of a question he’d asked himself back in the bridge city of Men-nefer: ‘What if the floods never come?’ he’d wondered. And following that, he’d wondered how anyone could go on with that fear hanging over them.

  Now he knew.

  “I am glad to hear it, my friend,” Maatkare said, wandering over. “Time to claim our prize.”

  “And you? What did you learn?” Heshtat asked.

  Maatkare looked out over the glorious vista spreading out below them, a soft smile on his face. “I learned that I am keen to return to my creche. My students are no doubt getting lazy in my absence, eh? So, less dallying and more ransacking holy relics from ancient temples.”

  Heshtat laughed. “Neferu will not be happy to hear of this.”

  “And I do not care what that crazed harpy thinks! We are nearly a match now in cultivation, and I have far more experience in war. She scares me no longer.”

  “You know this will only drive her into some new exploit to overcome you,” Heshtat replied, shaking his head. “You feed off each other, I swear it. The stories you tell her of your past are half the reason she is as audacious as she is.”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “It is a storied past! It deserves to be told!”

  “It is half lies and half exaggeration.”

  “Heshtat, my friend, you wound me with your accusations. I am a humble truth teller and Sesh, and I will hear no slander against my good name.”

  Heshtat let his breath whistle between his teeth and turned back to the Eye, though he felt a smile tugging at his lips. “Come, we have a purpose, do we not?”

  “We do now,” he said, and Heshtat felt his friend’s hand rest on his shoulder. “I am proud of—”

  He grunted and shoved the hand off with a laugh. “Enough of that,” Hehstat said, becoming serious once more. “Do we simply take it, or…?”

  Maatkare shrugged, and so Heshtat reached out and plucked the Eye from the bowl. It was not a biological organ, of course, but a medallion of simple bronze, inlaid with gold in the shape of a stylised eye. A single turquoise opal was set as the pupil, with blackened iron highlighting the eyelids in an imitation of the kohl many in Amansi wore.

  It was light, sitting in the palm of his hand with its simple gold chain hanging over the side of his thumb. He expected something to happen. Some vague spiritual pressure, rumbling from beneath his feet, even the world to darken to his senses, but instead he felt… entirely normal.

  “Anything?” Maatkare asked, looking at him askance.

  He shrugged. “Nothing. I suppose we have time to take this slow—”

  Then Heshtat felt the world buckle. Reality shook, each tiny clump of air and stone and flesh in the room vibrating at a synchronous frequency. His vision fizzed. His teeth buzzed. His thoughts scattered and reformed, somehow jumbled and incoherent, but there wasn’t enough of him cogent to recognise quite how they were wrong.

  And then for just a single moment, everything stopped. They hovered on the precipice, and Heshtat had time to recognise the feeling—the same power he imbued into his blade when he cut the world apart, the same intention to part the veil and cross from one realm into another.

  And then reality broke apart like a shattered mirror, shards tinkling as they fell, and Heshtat was transported for the third time in an hour.

  ***

  Daylight was the first thing to greet him. The warm sun on his face, golden and bright and normal for the first time in what felt like days. His brain jolted suddenly into movement, as if kicked by a particularly ornery donkey, and he glanced around frantically. The Eye remained gripped in his clenched hand, and he hurriedly donned it, hiding it beneath his vest to rest close against his skin.

  There was a steady thrum to it, slightly out of time with his heartbeat, but it soon stabilised, sinking into rhythm with his existence. His other hand gripped his khopesh, and at a quick glance, Heshtat noted its midnight hue. They were back in the Waking. Maatkare stood by his side, looking as if he was losing the battle with nausea, but Heshtat was just glad to see that he’d survived the translocation.

  They stood at the tip of the pyramid, its golden crown gleaming beneath their feet and the long expanse of white stone stretching out below them. Around its base huddled the double walls, crowded with trees straining skywards. Outside the gates was an avenue of black sand, lined with vine-choked pillars, and beyond that rested the lake around which squatted their enemies.

  Heshtat might have chosen a kinder word under better circumstances, but the Eye of Amin-Ra rested against his breast, and every person that lay between himself and his queen was now a potential enemy.

  “Quickly now,” he muttered, urging his friend on as he skidded down the golden ramp, landing gracefully on the lip of the first white stone block below. Maatkare followed shortly with notably less grace, but Heshtat didn’t remark on it. He would joke with his friend later, once they were safe. For now, his every thought was on how to escape the island with his team intact.

  Down they descended in a fitful flurry of leaps, drops and careful climbing. It took only a few minutes, but that was time in which their enemies had time to notice a change in the air, for even Heshtat had started to feel it. A stirring in the atmosphere above the temple, a chill wind whipping up at them from the river beyond their sight.

  As they emerged through the gates, Heshtat was greeted by a dozen menacing presences. A couple of scarlet-scalved assassins, several burly looking Medjay from the Great Builder’s camp. A few priests from various cults, wrapped in robes and clutching staffs that likely dated back to the Desolation, if not further. A strangely out of place cook wielding a frying pan, and two silk-clad dignitaries that looked more suited to a stroll through palace gardens than a pitched battle.

  And finally, a single woman that made Heshtat flinch just to look at. She was beautiful—nothing hideous about her. But from the bare shoulders, striated with muscle, to the glimpse of her chiselled abdomen peeking out between her armoured skirt and her armoured vest, never had he seen a person more suited to violence. She looked like she lived for war and breathed battle even in her sleep. Striking in the most dangerous and alluring way, her very presence screamed competence, and Heshtat knew she would be the deadliest of the group.

  So, the scarlet feathers, agents from both remaining True Thrones, the cults, the camp staff for some reason, and now this powerful stranger. Their odds did not look good.

  All assembled before him would be too much of a challenge, even individually. His cultivation had grown far beyond his former strength in such a short time, but he was still just an acolyte of Khet and a bare awakened of Sekhem. Compared to these multi-step adepts, he was little better than mortal.

  “Hold there, if you would be so kind,” called one of the Medjay, stepping forwards to block Heshtat and Maatkare’s path. It was hardly necessary, with the force arrayed behind the man, but appearances sometimes mattered.

  Heshtat came to a careful halt, eyes flicking back and forth as he looked for a way out. Or his companions. Where were they?

  “And if we told you that we didn’t have the Eye?” Maatkare called back from his side. “That the guardian battled the Desolate Horde atop the golden pyramid up there, and Anubian himself appeared to muddy the waters, leaving us to barely escape with our lives?”

  One of the assassins scoffed, and an old priestess slammed the butt of her staff into the sand with a sharp crack. “Then I would call you a liar. We can all feel the power wafting from that man.” And with that she raised a gnarled finger Heshtat’s way.

  Heshtat was facing dire odds. He’d faced worse and lived, but not often, and while he may stand a chance—not a good one, mind—against some of these individually, he knew that he’d have none in the chaos of a true battlefield. So he played for time.

  “And so we have a predicament,” he said, stepping forwards. He let his voice roll outwards with a confidence he didn’t feel, let a smile slip onto his face and widen at its edges. “Each of you wants what I have. Each of you is willing to kill for it, and I am sure most are willing to die for it, too. But you know as well as I that the moment you come close to death, the others will pounce.”

  He looked each of them in the eye as he spoke, his gaze roaming from smirking assassin to stately priest, from hard-bitten warrior to mysterious stranger.

  “If we fight now, someone walks away with the Eye. Probably. But I’d trade my soul to the Gobbler before trying to guess who it would be. Violence is chaotic, as you well know.”

  “Get to your point,” one of the Medjay called, fists tightening on his twin war picks. Heshtat wasn’t worried though—he had their attention. None were looking to the jungle at their right, nor the camp behind them, and that was just as well.

  “I propose a more elegant solution. One by one, I will face each of you. To the victor go the spoils.”

  “And how does that help any of us?” the cook asked from the back, his voice warbling feebly. Brave man. Heshtat took a moment to memorise his face.

  “It controls the chaos. Let each of you bet your blades against my own. If I fall, you get what you came here for. Of course, you would then have to walk through that same gauntlet that faces me now, but it will be slightly reduced.” Heshtat affected a calm air, though he was sure they could all hear his galloping heart. “I care not for the order I face you in.”

  The Medjay looked keen—they trained for war. The three of them, if they could fell Heshtat and Maatkare, would do well. The priests were less confident, for their power was less direct, though still potent, nonetheless. The cook’s reaction was as predictable as it was irrelevant—he was not the deciding factor in all of this. The two assassins exchanged coy smiles, though Heshtat thought he could read tension in their frames. They were likely hoping for the chaos of an open conflict, where they could become lost in the confusion and their wicked blades could plunge into unprotected flanks.

  Heshtat noted with interest the indifference on the stranger’s face. She was unaffiliated, so far as he knew. Or, more accurately, her affiliations were a mystery to him. Whatever her backer, she was confident. Not a good sign.

  One of the dignitaries from Hefatiti’s delegation spoke up then. “Why should any of us agree to this? We have reinforcements waiting a few hundred yards distant. They will not let you leave, no matter who leaves the temples grounds.”

  “What do I care?” Heshtat said. “My friend and I are dead already. I am just giving one of you a better chance. Perhaps it is a ploy, and I carve through the twelve of you like a fresh barley loaf for my niece? But if not, at least I die for my queen with honour and a blade in hand, rather than a stab in the back I don’t see coming.” He gestured lazily to the Scarlet Feathers, drawing a sinister chuckle from one of them.

  “So,” he continued, spreading his arms. “What do you say?”

  The group considered. All knew it was a pointless exercise—honour would soon be discarded once the stakes became clear. But the gauntlet he’d laid down provided a structure to the violence, at least for a time. Some no doubt thought it would help whittle down their competition, others simply hoped it would prevent the need to chase Heshtat around the island. Either way, there was interest and uncertainty both, which meant one thing for Heshtat.

  Time.

  The seconds ticked by, groups casting suspicious glances at each other while they considered how best to manoeuvre the situation to their advantage. Heshtat was content to wait as the old man limped his way over from the lake and the vines and trees to their left rustled and shifted.

  Eventually, the Medjay with twin war picks stepped forwards. “I’ll fight you, man to man. What say you?”

  The small crowd stilled. “Simply this,” Heshtat said with a smile. “Now!”

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