The sun climbed higher as Iroh left the Amon temple ruins, its heat pressing against her skin like a living thing. The caretaker's words—The stones speak to those who listen—echoed in her mind, mingling with the faint hum of the scarab watch in her pocket. She adjusted her satchel, the weight of her parents' journal and the bronze ankh grounding her as she navigated the gravel path back to the main road. Luxor's ancient heart pulsed around her, a blend of timeless stone and modern clamor, but the whispers from the ruins clung to her, faint as the desert wind. The letter's summons—The shadow beneath the sun stirs. Return to Cairo. Trust the scarab—had brought her here, but the temple had offered no answers, only questions that coiled tighter around her heart.
She hailed a taxi, the driver's radio crackling with a mournful oud melody as they wound through Luxor's bustling streets toward the city center. Iroh's destination was the modest office of Tahir Moussa, her mentor and a professor of Egyptian history at the local university. Tahir had been her parents' colleague, a steadfast presence during her childhood visits to his cluttered study, where he'd regale her with tales of Amon's hidden breath and Ma'at's delicate balance. Now, he was her first ally in unraveling the mystery of the letter and the archaeological disappearances that had drawn her back to Egypt.
The taxi stopped outside a weathered building, its plaster walls stained by years of dust and sun. Iroh paid the driver and stepped into the shade of a tamarisk tree, its feathery leaves rustling in the breeze. The air carried the scent of baked earth and distant Nile water, a reminder of the river's eternal presence. She climbed the narrow stairs to Tahir's office, her boots echoing in the dimly lit corridor. The door was ajar, and she knocked lightly, her heart a quiet drumbeat of anticipation and unease.
"Come in," came a familiar voice, gravelly with age but warm with recognition.
Iroh pushed the door open, stepping into a room that felt like a time capsule. Bookshelves sagged under the weight of tomes on Egyptology, their spines cracked and faded. Papyrus replicas and clay shabti figurines cluttered the desk, alongside a battered brass lamp that cast a soft glow. Tahir Moussa sat in a worn leather chair, his white hair thinning but his dark eyes as sharp as ever. He was in his late sixties, his face creased like old parchment, but his posture held the vigor of a man who lived for discovery. A linen vest hung loosely over his frame, and a silver ankh pendant glinted at his throat.
"Iroh," he said, rising with a smile that crinkled his eyes. "You're a sight for these old bones. I didn't believe it when you called."
She returned the smile, though it felt fragile, and crossed the room to embrace him. His arms were thin but steady, and for a moment, she was a child again, safe in the orbit of his stories. "It's good to see you, Tahir," she said, stepping back. "I wish it were under better circumstances."
His brow furrowed, and he gestured to a chair opposite his desk. "Sit, tell me everything. Your message was cryptic—back in Egypt after all these years, and asking about missing archaeologists? What's happened?"
Iroh sank into the chair, the leather creaking under her weight. The scarab watch ticked in her pocket, a faint pulse that seemed to sync with her heartbeat. She set her satchel on the floor, the letter and journal inside a silent weight. "It's complicated," she began, her voice low. "Three days ago, I received a letter. From my parents."
Tahir's eyes widened, his hand pausing mid-reach for a teapot on a side table. "Amina and Khaled? That's impossible. They've been gone twelve years."
"I know," Iroh said, her fingers brushing the watch through her pocket. "But it's her handwriting—Amina's. I'd know it anywhere. It was delivered to my flat in Oxford, no sender, just… there." She hesitated, the weight of the words pressing against her chest. "It said, 'The shadow beneath the sun stirs. Return to Cairo. Trust the scarab.'"
Tahir leaned back, his expression a mix of disbelief and concern. "The scarab," he murmured, his gaze flicking to her pocket as though he could see the watch through the fabric. "The one they gave you before they disappeared?"
She nodded, pulling it out and setting it on the desk. Its tarnished surface caught the lamplight, the solar disc and beetle wings etched with eerie precision. The inscription inside—To Iroh, guardian of the hidden—seemed to glow faintly, though she told herself it was a trick of the light. "It's been with me all these years," she said. "But since the letter, it feels… different. Warmer, sometimes. And I've been having dreams—sun haloes, whispers. Amon's name keeps surfacing."
Tahir's fingers drummed on the desk, a habit she remembered from her childhood when he was deep in thought. "Amon," he said, almost to himself. "The hidden god, the breath of creation. Your parents were obsessed with his dual nature—creator and destroyer, bound to the Nun's chaos. They believed his power was sealed, tied to the Ogdoad." He met her gaze, his voice firm. "This letter… it's no coincidence. Not with what's happening."
Iroh leaned forward, her pulse quickening. "The disappearances. You mentioned them in your email—archaeologists vanishing from dig sites. What's going on?"
Tahir sighed, pouring tea into two chipped cups, the steam curling like spirits in the air. "It started six months ago," he said, sliding a cup toward her. "Four researchers, all working on Second Dynasty sites near Saqqara and Abydos. They were excavating tombs linked to Amon's early worship. One day, they were there; the next, gone. No traces, no ransom demands. The authorities called it banditry, but…" He shook his head. "It's too precise. Too deliberate."
Iroh's fingers tightened around the cup, its warmth a faint comfort. "You think it's connected to my parents' work?"
"I don't know," Tahir admitted. "But Amina and Khaled were chasing something dangerous—a seal, they called it. They believed it held Amon's power in check, a balance rooted in Ma'at. If that seal is weakening…" He trailed off, his eyes distant. "The disappearances could be part of something larger. A cult, perhaps, or worse."
The word cult sent a chill through her, though the room was stifling. She thought of the whispers in the ruins, the watch's hum, the letter's cryptic warning. "A cult worshiping Amon?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Tahir shrugged, his expression grim. "It's possible. There are always fanatics drawn to the old gods. But this feels… older. More primal. Your parents hinted at a group—Night's Servants, they called them. They never said more, but I saw fear in their eyes." He sipped his tea, then set the cup down with a clink. "If they're back, and they know you're here…"
Iroh's stomach twisted, but she forced herself to focus. "I'm going to Cairo tomorrow," she said. "Sophia's there—she's been tracking similar incidents at the museum. I need to find her, see if she's uncovered anything."
Tahir nodded, approval in his gaze. "Sophia's sharp. She studied under your parents, like you. If anyone can help, it's her." He paused, his tone softening. "But be careful, Iroh. You're not just chasing history. You're stepping into their shadow."
The warning echoed the caretaker's words, and Iroh felt the watch's ticking grow louder, as though it sensed the conversation's weight. She sipped her tea, the bitter herbs grounding her, and glanced at the desk, where a small shabti figurine stared back, its painted eyes unnervingly lifelike. "There's something else," she said, setting the cup down. "In the ruins today, I felt… something. A whisper, not quite words. It came when I touched the sacred barque."
Tahir's brow furrowed, and he leaned forward, his voice low. "A whisper? Like your dreams?"
"Maybe," she said, her fingers brushing the watch. "It felt… alive. Like Amon was watching." She laughed, a brittle sound, trying to shake the unease. "I sound like my mother."
"You sound like someone who's been called," Tahir said, his tone serious. "Your parents believed the gods left echoes in the world—traces of their will. If Amon's stirring, you may be part of it." He reached across the desk, his hand covering hers. "Promise me you'll protect yourself. The gods don't play gently."
Iroh squeezed his hand, her resolve hardening. "I promise," she said, though the whispers and the watch's hum made the vow feel fragile. She rose, slipping the watch back into her pocket. "I'll call you from Cairo. If Sophia's found anything, I'll let you know."
Tahir stood, his expression a mix of pride and worry. "You're your parents' daughter," he said. "But you're also Iroh. Don't forget that."
She nodded, the words a quiet anchor as she left the office, the corridor's shadows swallowing her footsteps. Outside, the sun blazed, but the whispers followed, faint and relentless, a reminder that Amon's gaze was upon her, and the shadow beneath the sun was stirring.