Amen

Black magic is dead. The god Set is dust in scrolls. Tales of Shezmu are dust on the pages. The former pharaoh exterminated the family, the new one bound the earth with iron.

To be a shezmu is to dig a grave. Every moment. Your life hangs in the balance.

Guards are everywhere. In every corner. The end of an era. The beginning of fear.

You are the master's apprentice. You write, you read. Only half the truth. The other half is in the shadows. Only the desperate know you. Know shezma.

You work silently. Speaking with the dead is a ritual. The mask is skin. Tears are an empty sound. You've seen too much grief.

The teacher's lessons are secrets. Connection with the spirit. The gift of peace. The boundary between worlds. Prophetic dreams.

But this time – failure. The spirit was ready to speak. And – a signal. A trap. Run.

A guard's hand in the dark. Escape through the back alleys. Shadows. Nearly collided with a figure. Slipping away.

Days of calm. New orders. A tomb in the necropolis. Bypass the guards. Alone with eternity.

The guard is down. Silence. Mask on face. Hood.

Sarcophagus. Perfect. Hypnotizing. Waiting.

A chuckle from the darkness. A chill down my spine. Three claps. He steps into the light.

Epistat. Amen.

— So-so... A ghostly shezmu. And a girl. The curls give it away.

Step. An iron grip on my elbow. He pulls me towards him.

You see him now. Tall. Hair like white ash. Eyes like the cold sky. Power felt through his clothes. Danger in the flesh.

"Show me your face, darling," his voice was a velvety poison. "After pushing me back then... you became interesting."