Mursalin's hand moves again. In the gesture of his fingers lies the weight of an absolute command. His eyes meet those of his companions, and everyone understands that this is the moment. If they delay, there may never be another chance.
Mir, whose hands are still trembling, slowly moves his gloved fingers toward the map. Every breath he takes is a prayer, every heartbeat a pulse of hope. There is determination on his face.
At the moment he touches the map, an unprecedented sensation flows through his body. It is colder than ice. A cold that freezes the blood, that turns the marrow of the bones to frost. Yet at the same time it burns without heat, igniting an invisible fire on his skin through the glove. This double sensation is so intense that his face twists in pain.
The span of a single heartbeat. Just one moment. Nothing happens. Within this stillness lies a terrible expectation.
The breaths of the five young men are held, their hearts seeming to stop.
Then?
The glass box shatters into pieces. But this breaking is not like ordinary glass. Each fragment flares like a tiny star, then scatters in every direction at unbelievable speed. The shards strike the walls with such force that stone breaks away. When they hit the floor, they carve out holes. Some fragments remain suspended in the air itself, defying gravity, forming an impossible geometry.
Wherever these supernatural shards strike, the stone rots like living flesh. From within the walls is revealed a dark void. A darkness that devours light, that confuses sight. To look into this void feels like staring into the gaping mouth of a terrifying infinity.
Slowly, they step back.
And then the whispering begins. But this time it is no longer a whisper. It becomes a spiritual scream that strikes not the ears but the depths of the soul.
"Thieves."
It sends an electric shudder down each young man's spine, planting a deep sense of guilt in their souls.
Halem's foot, usually as steady as a mountain, suddenly slips. His muscular body loses balance, a look of startled terror crossing his face.
The balance of the entire court chamber collapses. The darkness begins to tremble, the carved faces on the walls seeming to come alive, their stone eyes blazing with rage. A sleep of a thousand years is broken by the touch of a single breath.
From the walls burst arrows of fire woven with the names of the cursed. But these arrows are no ordinary weapons. Each one was forged a thousand years ago. Their tips burn with blue fire. A fire that does not only burn the body, but turns the soul to ash. The arrows slice through the air with a horn-like shriek, each one like a hungry predator.
One arrow races straight toward Halem, aimed at the center of his chest. Its speed is so great that it leaves a burning line in the air. In Halem's eyes is reflected his approaching death, on his face a stunned acceptance.
But Vesha, whose reaction is as sharp as a falcon's strike, leaps instantly. His arm yanks Halem aside, using his own body as a shield. The arrow grazes Halem's shoulder, igniting the sleeve of his clothing with blue fire. The threads of cloth burn away, spreading a sharp smell through the air, like burnt cotton mixed with something sinister, something supernatural.
Halem's eyes widen in shock and gratitude. He understands how close he was to complete annihilation. His hands tremble. His breathing is fast and shallow, like someone taking their first breath after nearly drowning.
"Thank you," Halem whispers, his voice carrying a mixture of deep gratitude and fear.
Vesha, whose face still bears the mark of sharp alertness, nods briefly. In his eyes is a warrior's pride, and at the same time a deep concern. He knows this is only the beginning, that far greater dangers are waiting ahead.
Mursalin does not look at his friends. All his attention is fixed on the map in Mir's hands. This map is the purpose of their expedition, the reason for every risk they have taken. Their reward, for which they have wagered their lives, for which they have entered this pit of death. The map is now in their grasp, but this possession is only a beginning, not the end.
Suddenly, everything trembles. The entire court chamber turns into the heart of an earthquake. The stones of the walls grind against each other, producing a horrific, grinding sound. The mosaic floor begins to crack, the ancient mortar breaking apart.
The faces of the kings on the walls, who had been screaming in silence for a thousand years, now begin to shed black tears.
And then, far away—far from this cursed court chamber, far from this mysterious museum—in the normal world outside, bells begin to ring. The sound of these bells is a warning, a call to awakening. Each toll sends a shudder through the air, sounding like an omen of doom.
The time for secrecy is over. Their intrusion is no longer hidden.
The museum has awakened. This ancient building, which at night lay silent like a sleeping monster, is now fully alert. Every corridor, every chamber, every hidden passage comes alive at once. From the depths of the structure rises an enraged roar, a sound impossible for a human throat to produce.
On the faces of the five young men appears the realization that their hardest trial still lies ahead. They have obtained the map, but now they must escape. And the entire museum is now their enemy.
A battlefield fire ignites in Mursalin's eyes. His body tightens, ready for struggle.
"Move," Mursalin says, his voice hard as steel. "Our time here is over."
In his words is the force of an unquestionable command, driving everyone instantly into action.
Every corridor is now an enemy, every pillar a waking guard.
The map is no longer just an object. It is a weight. It can be held in the hand, but it presses down on the soul. Every line upon it now carries a different meaning—not a path, but a demand. Not a promise, but a debt. They realize they have not merely taken something; they have awakened something.
The air tries to erase the memory of the door closing behind them.
But nothing is ever completely erased.
This night is a boundary. On one side stand those whose lives were a collection of ordinary risks, and on the other lies a future where every breath is bound to history. They are no longer just intruders. They are bearers.
In the shadow of destruction, beneath the silent presence of the map, paths split and stretch toward the future. Toward truths that demand a price to be known.
The night remains silent.
But the world no longer sleeps as it once did.