The moon hung over Iunu like a silver eye, staring unblinking at a city that never fully slept. In the Temple of Thoth, hidden from the world by sandstone walls and divine silence, Layla wandered past pillars carved with ancient hymns and gods with animal heads. Her feet were bare. The cold stone beneath her soles grounded her, even as her mind swam with a hundred questions.
She had not returned to her sleeping chamber. Something in the scroll she had unlocked—that scroll—would not leave her alone. The cryptic symbols still burned behind her eyes. When she'd touched them, it hadn't felt like reading. It had felt like… listening.
A soft voice echoed from the shadows behind .
Layla froze.
"Who's there?" she whispered.
No answer. Just the wind brushing past the walks..
She took another step forward, holding the bronze oil lamp higher. Shadows danced against the wall, alive and writhing. She made her way back into the Scroll Chamber, which now felt different—less a room, more like a mouth, wide open with secrets too old to name.
There, on the old tablel where she'd left the enchanted scroll, it lay open once again. But this time, there were new symbols on it—ones she hadn't seen before.
Impossible, she thought. "I sealed it…"
Then came a soft frightening voice—soft, . She did not hear it with her ears, but inside her head:
"Scriptweaver… you touched the forbidden script. You awakened it."
Layla spun around. No one.
"Who are you?" she demanded aloud. "What is this?"
"The beginning. Your blood remembers. Just as mine did."
The voice grew clearer, sharper, as if drawing power from her confusion.
Layla's breathing quickened. Her heart pounded like raging drums. She reached toward the scroll again—hesitating only a moment—and laid her hand on it. This time, the symbols pulsed softly under her fingers as if they are welcoming her.
And then—it showed her.
A flash. A vision. A desert storm. A beautiful woman in white and gold, her eyes blazing like stars, standing over a battlefield littered with broken statues and bloodied scrolls. She held a staff shaped like a snake .
Beside her stood a girl who looked… eerily familiar. Not quite Layla, but close. Same jaw. Same eyes.
The woman whispered:
"You will write the new truth. You will reshape the past."
Then the vision shattered.
Layla fell back, gasping.
Her hands were glowing.
Literally glowing—golden veins of light pulsing beneath her skin, especially around her fingers. But no pain. Only energy.
"What the hell is happening to me?" she breathed.
Behind her, a voice said sharply, "That's exactly what I came to find out."
Layla jumped. Turning around, she saw a tall figure cloaked in midnight-blue robes, his face half-covered .But she recognized the glint of his eyes. It was Amon—the high priest's apprentice. Younger than most, but feared in the temple for his ability to memorize entire sacred texts in a day, and for his silence. They called him the Watcher.
"You're not supposed to be here," Layla said, trying to sound steady.
"And neither are you," he replied, stepping forward. His eyes flicked to the open scroll. "You opened that?"
"I didn't mean to—"
"Liar." He crouched, inspecting the parchment. "Only a blood-marked Scriptweaver could have awakened this one. It hasn't stirred in centuries."
Layla said nothing. Her hands were still glowing faintly, though fading.
"Who are you really, Layla?" Amon asked, his voice lower now. "The high priest thinks you're just a curious girl with neat handwriting. But you're not."
She is right. "I am exactly who I say I am."
"No," he said, his voice rising. "You're something more dangerous. You're her descendant."
Layla blinked. "Whose?"
He gestured toward the scroll. "The one who wrote this. The First Scriptweaver. The Pharaoh's Librarian. Her name was Ahmeya."
The name struck like lighting deep inside her chest.
Suddenly, Layla felt cold. "That name… I've dreamed it. I thought it was made up."
"No," Amon said. "It's in your blood. And now that the scroll has awakened, others will come looking for it. And for you."
He turned toward the exit and said "Come with me."
"I'm not going anywhere with you," Layla said, stepping back.
Amon's clenched his teeth. "If you stay here, the temple will burn before sunrise."
"…What?"
"Word has already reached the Eyes of Set. They know a forbidden scroll was unlocked. They'll think you're a heretic. Or worse—a usurper."
Layla's mind spun. Everything was moving too fast. She glanced again at the scroll, and the soft whispering in her mind returned:
"Follow the Watcher. You are not ready yet, Layla. But you will be."
"…Fine," she said at last. "But if you lie to me, I'll carve a truthscroll and bind your tongue to it forever."
Amon eyebrows twitched slightly but just nodded.
---
They moved silently through secret corridors behind the temple walls. Layla's mind was filled with questions she did not dare to speak out load, at least not yet. Amon's presence was sharp and cool, like ice. He didn't look at her, but she could tell he was listening to her breath, her beating heart, her thoughts even.
Finally, they emerged into an underground chamber. The walls were covered in living symbols that crawled and shifted like inked fireflies. A massive door stood before them, covered in iron and shaped like a lotus in bloom.
"Where are we?" Layla asked.
Amon touched the center of the lotus, and it bloomed open with a steam of old magic.
He stepped aside. "Welcome to the Shadow Archive."
Layla stepped into a vast circular room, lined with shelves that reached into darkness. Scrolls. Books. Tablets. Artifacts never meant to be seen.
"These are cursed," she whispered.
Amon nodded. "Or blessed. Depending on who's reading them."
She turned slowly, taking it in. "Why are you showing me this?"
"Because I've been waiting for you," he said.
That made her stop cold.
Amon walked forward, took a candle from the wall, and placed it before an obsidian platform. Upon it rested a scroll wrapped in red thread.
"Three hundred years ago," he said, "Ahmeya predicted her bloodline would vanish… only to be reborn. She left this for her heir."
Layla stared at the scroll. Her heart beating crazy that she could hear it with her ears.then she asked not believing
"…Me?"
He nodded.
"But why?"
Amon hesitated. Then, softly, he said:
"Because there's a lie buried in our history. A lie that cost the lives of every woman who ever dared hold a quill(it's a tool they used to write like a feather). A lie powerful enough to bend time, if rewritten."
Layla reached for the scroll. Her hand trembled. As she touched the red thread, it unraveled on its own, as if recognizing her.
The scroll opened.
There were only three words inside:
"He still lives."
She looked up. "Who?"
Amon's voice dropped to a whisper.
"The Lost Pharaoh."