RarelyKnown Original: “Order Of The Sun”
The Summons
The letter had arrived on parchment—actual parchment—wrapped in an envelope that smelled faintly of old books and desert dust.
Professor Alexander Graves turned it over in his hands one more time as the taxi jolted through the congested streets of Cairo. The letter had been brief, almost frantic.
Alex— I have made a discovery. A dangerous one. You must come immediately. I trust no one else.
—Samir
No details. No explanations. Just an address hastily scrawled at the bottom.
Graves peered out the window as the taxi swerved through the chaotic city. He had been to Cairo before—many times, in fact—but there was always something exhilarating about it. The noise, the scent of spices mixed with the gasoline-heavy air, the endless movement. A city layered in time, where sleek glass towers cast shadows over streets unchanged for centuries.
He checked his watch. 6:15 p.m. Almost sunset. The heat of the day had begun to settle, replaced by a dense warmth that clung to his skin. The driver grunted something in Arabic and gestured ahead—a street packed with people moving between market stalls, their chatter and the sound of haggling rising in waves.
“Here,” the driver said in rough English.
Graves paid, stepped out, and adjusted his jacket. The address led him to a narrow side street where the scent of grilled lamb and baking bread mingled in the air. His boots scuffed against the old stone as he navigated through the dimming light, following the numbers until—
There it was. A small apartment tucked between a café and a shop selling antique brassware. The door was slightly ajar.
Graves frowned.
He stepped inside.
“Samir?”
Silence.
A single lamp burned in the corner, flickering weakly. Papers were scattered across the desk, a few drifting lazily in the evening breeze from the open window. The scent of old books hung in the air. And something else—something metallic.
Blood.
Graves’ breath caught as he saw the shape on the floor.
Samir Hassan lay sprawled near the desk, his eyes frozen in an expression of surprise and terror. His shirt was stained dark, the wound just below his ribs already dried at the edges.
Graves took a slow step forward. A piece of paper was still clutched in Samir’s hand, crumpled as if he had been trying to protect it.
Graves knelt and pried it loose.
It was a torn page from an ancient manuscript, covered in delicate hieroglyphs. At the bottom, hastily written in modern Arabic, were two words.
“Black Sun.”
A shuffle of movement behind him.
Graves turned—just in time to see the shadow in the doorway.
The Pursuit
Graves lunged forward.
The figure in the doorway turned and bolted, vanishing into the dimly lit street outside.
Graves hesitated for half a second—Samir’s body, the cryptic message, the smell of death lingering in the air—before instinct took over. He stuffed the crumpled note into his pocket and sprinted after the fleeing shadow.
The narrow alley opened into a wider street, choked with people moving between food stalls and shops, the air thick with the scent of roasting lamb and sizzling oil. Graves pushed past a vendor carrying a tray of tea glasses, ignoring the man’s angry shout.
The pursuer was fast, weaving effortlessly through the crowd, his dark clothing blending into the Cairo dusk. Graves caught glimpses—a flicker of a silhouette, the glint of something metallic at his hip. A gun? A knife?
His legs burned as he picked up speed.
The man darted around a fruit cart, sending oranges spilling onto the cobblestones. Graves vaulted over it, nearly losing his footing. The street turned sharply to the left, leading into a quieter passageway lined with wooden doors and shuttered windows.
For a moment, Graves lost sight of him.
Then—movement.
The man was climbing. He’d grabbed onto an iron drainpipe, hauling himself onto a low rooftop.
Graves didn’t stop to think. He followed. His fingers scraped against hot metal as he pulled himself up, boots kicking against the side of the building. He reached the roof just as the pursuer jumped to the next one—a narrow gap over a dark alley below.
Graves had no choice. He leapt.
The impact jarred his knees, but he stayed upright. The man glanced back—just for a second—but it was enough. Graves threw himself forward, grabbing at his coat.
A struggle.
They tumbled onto the rooftop, rolling dangerously close to the edge. The man struck first, a hard elbow to Graves’ ribs. Pain exploded through his side, but he held on.
Then—Graves caught sight of the man’s face.
He was young. Maybe late twenties. A thin scar ran from his temple down to his jaw. His eyes—dark, calculating—showed not fear, but annoyance. As if Graves was an inconvenience.
Graves went for the man’s wrist, trying to force him down, but the attacker twisted, pulling something from his belt.
A knife.
Graves barely dodged the first swipe. The second nicked his sleeve, slicing through fabric. The man pulled back for another strike—
A voice shouted from the street below.
The man froze. A heartbeat later, he shoved Graves back, scrambled to his feet, and sprinted across the rooftop. Before Graves could recover, his pursuer disappeared over the far edge, vanishing into the night.
Graves lay there, catching his breath. His ribs ached. His hands were shaking. He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the crumpled page.
“Black Sun.”
Samir had been murdered for this.
Whatever it meant, someone was willing to kill for it.
And Graves had just made himself their next target.
A Warning in the Dark
Graves pressed a hand against his ribs as he stepped into the lobby of the Hotel Shepheard. It was an old colonial relic, all marble floors and heavy chandeliers, with an air of faded grandeur.
The chase had left him sore, but not as much as the questions hammering at his mind.
Who was that man? What did Samir find? And why did he write Black Sun before he died?
The elevator groaned as it carried him to the fifth floor. He stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, walked past the brass-plated numbers, and stopped at Room 512.
He hesitated.
Something felt off.
The door was closed, just as he left it. No signs of forced entry. And yet—an itch crawled up the back of his neck, an instinct honed by years in the field. Someone had been here.
Graves exhaled slowly, then slid the key into the lock. The door swung open with a faint click.
Darkness.
The curtains were drawn. The air felt heavier than it should.
He stepped inside, moving carefully. He reached for the light—
A voice stopped him.
“I wouldn’t.”
Graves froze.
A figure sat in the armchair by the window, barely visible in the dim light. A woman. Legs crossed, one arm draped lazily over the armrest. He could make out the glint of a cigarette between her fingers, its ember pulsing faintly.
“Close the door,” she said.
Graves stayed by the threshold. “I don’t usually take orders in my own room.”
A soft chh as she exhaled a ribbon of smoke. “You were just with Dr. Hassan, weren’t you?”
His pulse quickened. “Who are you?”
“Someone who doesn’t want you dead.”
“That’s reassuring.”
A flicker of movement—she leaned forward slightly, into the faint sliver of light from the window. Enough for him to see dark eyes framed by shoulder-length hair, high cheekbones, and an expression that was both amused and serious.
“You’re in danger, Professor Graves.”
He studied her. “I gathered that when someone tried to stab me on a rooftop.”
She didn’t react. “That was a warning.”
Graves raised an eyebrow. “Most people send flowers.”
A smirk. Then she stood, flicking the cigarette into an ashtray. “You should leave Cairo. Tonight.”
Graves folded his arms. “Not until I get answers.”
She sighed, as if she expected that. “Then at least be smart enough to know who your enemies are.”
She stepped past him, reaching for the door. Before he could stop her, she paused, just for a moment.
“Black Sun is real,” she murmured. “But if you keep looking, you won’t live to see it.”
The door opened.
And before he could demand more, she was gone.
Graves stood in the dark, the city humming beyond the window.
Black Sun is real.
Samir had died for those words.
And now, it seemed, Graves was next in line.
A Dangerous Partnership
The address led Graves to a small café tucked into a side street off Tahrir Square. It was the kind of place that had probably looked the same for fifty years—wooden chairs, a dusty ceiling fan that barely moved the thick air, and a few old men sipping tea and smoking shisha in the corner.
Layla was already there.
She sat at a table near the back, stirring a cup of coffee with an unnecessary amount of focus. A notebook and a folded newspaper lay in front of her. When she spotted Graves, she gestured for him to sit.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said.
Graves settled into the chair across from her. “You were sure.”
She smirked but didn’t argue. Instead, she pushed the newspaper toward him. “Page three.”
Graves unfolded it.
There, in bold Arabic script, was an article about Samir’s murder. He scanned the first few paragraphs—standard details, mostly. Found dead in his apartment. No suspects. No known motive. Then, halfway through, a line caught his eye.
Authorities are investigating claims that Dr. Hassan had recently acquired an artifact linked to the Amarna period.
Graves looked up. “He found something.”
Layla nodded. “And now it’s missing.”
The Amarna period—Akhenaten’s reign. The so-called heretic pharaoh, the one who abandoned Egypt’s gods in favor of the sun deity Aten. Graves had studied it for years. But if Samir had uncovered something significant…
“What was it?” he asked.
Layla leaned in, lowering her voice. “I don’t know. But before he died, Samir contacted someone.”
Graves frowned. “Who?”
“A collector. Black market.” She hesitated, then added, “And he’s not the kind of man you meet in broad daylight.”
Graves studied her. “Yet here we are, meeting in broad daylight.”
Layla smirked. “I’m not stupid. You and I barely know each other. But we both want the same thing—answers. So we work together, or we both get nowhere.”
Graves considered. He wasn’t sure he trusted her. But she was right—she had connections he didn’t, and right now, time was against them.
He nodded. “Fine. Where do we find this collector?”
Layla took a breath. “We don’t. He finds us.”
Graves arched an eyebrow.
She leaned back, arms crossed. “I sent a message. If he wants to talk, he’ll let us know.”
Graves wasn’t sure how he felt about waiting for a criminal to find them, but before he could argue, something caught his attention.
A man at the far end of the café.
He was pretending to read a newspaper, but his eyes flicked toward them every few seconds. Something about his posture—too rigid, too focused—set off alarms in Graves’ mind.
Layla noticed too. She murmured, “We should go.”
Too late.
The man stood.
Graves caught the glint of a gun beneath his jacket.
He barely had time to react before the café exploded into chaos.
Gunfire in the Café
Graves moved before the first shot was fired.
He grabbed Layla’s arm and yanked her down just as the gunman pulled a pistol from his jacket. The crack of gunfire split the air, shattering ceramic cups and sending patrons screaming.
A second man—bigger, meaner-looking—pushed through the entrance, raising a submachine gun.
“Down!” Graves shouted.
The old men smoking in the corner dove for cover. Layla grabbed the table and overturned it just as a burst of bullets chewed through the wooden chairs behind them.
Graves hit the floor, heart hammering. He glanced at Layla—she wasn’t panicking, which meant she’d been in trouble before. That was good.
The first gunman moved closer, scanning for them through the chaos.
Graves had seconds.
His eyes flicked to the steaming pot of coffee on the counter. A distraction.
Without thinking, he lunged, grabbed the pot, and hurled it.
The boiling liquid splashed across the gunman’s arm. He let out a sharp, pained yell, dropping his pistol as he staggered back.
Layla was already moving. She kicked the gun away, then grabbed Graves’ sleeve. “Run!”
They darted for the back door.
The second gunman spotted them and swung his weapon around—
A burst of gunfire ripped through the air.
Plaster exploded from the wall inches from Graves’ head. Layla yelped as a bullet shattered a nearby lamp. The narrow alley outside was their only chance.
Graves kicked the door open, and they stumbled out into the blinding daylight.
The market.
Dozens of vendors, tourists, and locals filled the street. Graves grabbed Layla’s hand and pulled her into the throng, weaving between stalls of spices, textiles, and jewelry.
Behind them, the gunmen burst into the alley.
“There!”
The chase was on.
Layla cursed under her breath. “You always attract this kind of trouble?”
Graves barely managed a grin. “Only on weekdays.”
They ran.
Weaving through the crowd, dodging carts, shoving past confused vendors. Graves pulled down a rack of hanging rugs as they passed, sending them tumbling onto their pursuers.
It bought them a few seconds.
Not enough.
The gunmen were fast, relentless.
Then—Graves spotted it.
An open truck loaded with crates.
“Jump!” he shouted.
Layla hesitated only a fraction of a second before she grabbed the side of the truck and swung herself in. Graves followed, landing hard as the vehicle rumbled forward.
Behind them, the gunmen skidded to a stop, watching as the truck carried them away.
For now, they had escaped.
But Graves knew the truth.
This wasn’t over.
Whoever these men were, they wanted Black Sun just as badly as he did.
And they were willing to kill for it.
The Man in the Shadows
The truck bounced along the uneven Cairo streets, the hot wind whipping dust into Graves’ face. He held onto the side, catching his breath, while Layla sat beside him, legs crossed, looking far too casual for someone who had just survived a gunfight.
“Tell me this happens to you a lot,” she said, brushing a stray curl from her face.
Graves exhaled. “Only when I’m having a good week.”
Layla smirked, then leaned forward and knocked on the truck’s rear panel. A second later, it slowed to a crawl before coming to a full stop.
“Where are we?” Graves asked.
Layla hopped down. “Somewhere safe. Come on.”
Graves followed her into a narrow, winding alley that smelled of spices and old stone. The deeper they went, the quieter the city seemed. Finally, she stopped in front of a door barely visible beneath layers of peeling paint.
She knocked once. Then twice. Then once more.
A few seconds passed. Then, with a low creak, the door swung open.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of incense and something metallic—polished brass, maybe, or something older. The room was dim, lit only by scattered lanterns. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with relics—golden amulets, rusted daggers, ancient scrolls. It looked less like a shop and more like a forgotten corner of a museum.
And in the center of it all, behind a wooden desk, sat a man.
He was older, maybe late fifties, with neatly combed silver hair and a crisp linen suit that looked completely out of place in the dusty surroundings. He held a cigarette between two fingers, studying Graves with an amused smile.
“Professor Alexander Graves,” he said, his voice smooth, practiced. “I’ve heard of you.”
Graves folded his arms. “That’s never a good sign.”
The man chuckled, then gestured to the chair across from him. “Please, sit. You must be tired from running for your life.”
Graves hesitated but sat. Layla took the seat beside him, arms still crossed, watching the man carefully.
“You knew Samir Hassan,” Graves said. “He came to you before he died.”
The man exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke. “Yes.”
“What did he bring you?”
The man smiled. “A question, Professor Graves. And, as you know, the right questions are often more dangerous than answers.”
Graves narrowed his eyes. “What question?”
The man leaned forward slightly, tapping ash into a bronze dish.
“Dr. Hassan asked me about the Black Sun.”
A beat of silence.
Graves felt Layla shift beside him.
“So it’s real,” Graves said.
The man nodded. “Oh yes. And if you’re not careful, Professor… it will be the last thing you ever see.”
A Relic of the Heretic Pharaoh
Graves leaned in. “Samir died for this. I want to know why.”
The collector gave him a long, considering look, then stubbed out his cigarette. He reached beneath his desk, rummaged through a locked drawer, and placed something on the table between them.
A small, stone fragment.
It was smooth, dark with age, no larger than Graves’ palm. But carved into its surface, faint yet unmistakable, was an ancient symbol:
SUN—the sun disk of Aten.
Akhenaten’s god.
Graves’ breath slowed. He traced a finger along the edge of the fragment, feeling the centuries etched into its surface.
“This is from Amarna,” he said. “The lost city.”
The collector nodded. “Specifically, from a site never officially excavated. A hidden temple.”
Layla frowned. “And how did you get it?”
The collector’s smile was thin. “Let’s say I have… friends in the right places.”
Graves ignored the evasion. His mind was already racing. If this came from a secret temple, then Samir had been onto something much bigger than an ordinary artifact.
“Samir thought this was important enough to risk his life,” he said. “What else did he find?”
The collector exhaled through his nose. “Dr. Hassan came to me with a theory. He believed Akhenaten’s obsession with Aten wasn’t just religious. He thought it was scientific.”
Graves’ brows furrowed. “Meaning?”
The collector leaned forward. “Meaning that Akhenaten wasn’t just worshipping the sun. He was studying it. And whatever he learned… the pharaoh’s priests tried to bury it.”
Layla crossed her arms. “That doesn’t explain why people are getting killed over it.”
The collector’s fingers tapped the desk. “Because, Miss Saad, Samir wasn’t the only one looking.”
Graves felt the weight of the words settle in his chest.
“Who else?”
The collector hesitated. For the first time, he looked uneasy.
Then—
CRASH.
The front door slammed open.
Shouts. Heavy boots. The glint of weapons in the low lantern light.
Graves barely had time to react before three men stormed in, their guns already raised.
The collector cursed under his breath.
“Ah,” he muttered. “It seems we’ve run out of time.”
Escape into the Night
The first man through the door was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried a pistol with the confidence of someone who knew how to use it. The second was leaner, sharp-eyed, gripping an old AK-47. The third—well-dressed, no gun visible—was clearly in charge.
Graves hated the way he smiled.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the collector said smoothly, though there was a tightness in his jaw. “You should have knocked.”
The leader took a slow step forward, hands in his pockets. “We prefer the direct approach.” His Arabic was crisp, but there was an accent—European, maybe Russian.
His eyes flicked to the stone fragment on the desk.
“We’ll take that,” he said.
Graves and Layla exchanged a glance.
The collector sighed, shaking his head. “You break into my shop, point guns at my guests, and now you want gifts?” He tsked. “Very rude.”
The man’s smile didn’t waver. “Dr. Hassan made a mistake,” he said. “I’d hate for you to repeat it.”
Graves clenched his fists. “You killed him.”
The leader didn’t deny it. “And if you don’t hand over the relic, I’ll kill you too.”
A silence stretched between them.
Then—Layla moved.
She kicked the edge of the desk, sending the stone fragment flying into the air.
The leader’s eyes darted up—just for a second.
It was enough.
Graves lunged, grabbing the edge of the table and flipping it onto the first gunman. The AK-47 fired wildly, bullets ripping through shelves as the man staggered back.
Layla grabbed a brass lamp from the desk and smashed it into the second attacker’s head. He cursed, stumbling.
The collector had already ducked behind a shelf, reaching for something—
“Go!” he barked.
Graves didn’t need to be told twice.
He grabbed Layla’s wrist and ran.
The back door was only a few meters away—
A bullet splintered the wooden frame just as they barreled through.
The alley outside was dark, twisting through Cairo’s old quarter. They sprinted without looking back, feet pounding against the stone. Shouts rang out behind them.
“This way!” the collector hissed, ducking through a narrow passage.
Graves followed. Another gunshot. A bullet ricocheted off the wall inches from Layla’s head.
“They’re still coming!” she gasped.
Graves glanced back. Shadows moved through the alley—fast, relentless.
They weren’t getting away clean.
Then—up ahead—
A motorbike.
Old, dusty, but intact.
Graves didn’t hesitate. He leapt onto the seat, yanked the kickstart, and the engine roared to life.
“Layla—on!”
She didn’t argue. She climbed behind him, arms tightening around his waist. The collector, still a step behind, cursed in frustration.
“Find me later!” he hissed. “Khan el-Khalili!”
Then—he vanished into the shadows.
The gunmen rounded the corner.
Graves twisted the throttle. The bike lurched forward, tires kicking up dust as they tore down the alley.
Bullets whizzed past them.
They didn’t stop.
Didn’t look back.
Cairo blurred around them as they disappeared into the night—chased by men who would kill to bury Black Sun.
The Hidden Message
The motorbike rattled to a stop in a side street just outside Khan el-Khalili.
Graves killed the engine, and silence settled over them—aside from Layla’s sharp breathing and the distant hum of the market. The scent of spices, roasted nuts, and old leather filled the air, mixing with the adrenaline still pumping through his veins.
Layla slid off first, pulling dust-covered curls away from her face. “That,” she panted, “was insane.”
Graves swung his leg over the bike. “You’re welcome.”
She shot him a glare but didn’t argue. Instead, she glanced toward the maze of market stalls ahead of them. “Your collector friend said to meet him here?”
“No.” Graves ran a hand through his hair. “He said to find him here.”
Layla let out a slow breath. “Of course he did.”
Khan el-Khalili wasn’t just a market—it was a labyrinth. A tangled mass of narrow alleys and ancient archways, crammed with shops selling everything from gold jewelry to hand-woven carpets. The place had stood for centuries, and even locals got lost inside it.
Graves scanned the bustling crowds, his thoughts racing. The collector was smart. He wouldn’t leave them out in the open.
Then—
He spotted something.
A single brass oil lamp sitting on the edge of a merchant’s table.
It was unremarkable except for a piece of folded parchment tucked beneath it.
Graves exchanged a glance with Layla. Then he reached for the note.
The handwriting was neat. Precise.
“The sun sets where the dead still whisper. Find the gate, and you’ll find the truth.”
Layla read over his shoulder. “What the hell does that mean?”
Graves frowned, rolling the words over in his mind. Then it clicked.
“The City of the Dead.”
Layla blinked. “The old necropolis?”
Graves nodded. “It’s Cairo’s largest ancient cemetery—miles of tombs, some dating back to the Mamluk period. If he’s hiding anywhere, that’s where we’ll find him.”
Layla exhaled. “A black-market dealer hiding in a graveyard. Sounds about right.”
Graves tucked the note into his pocket. “Come on. We move before our friends with the guns find us first.”
They slipped into the crowd, the weight of the message hanging between them.
Somewhere in the City of the Dead, the next piece of Black Sun was waiting.
A Shadow in the Crowd
They moved deeper into the market, weaving through stalls of shimmering lanterns, hand-painted ceramics, and tables piled high with spices. The scent of saffron and roasted almonds hung thick in the warm evening air, but Graves barely noticed.
Something wasn’t right.
A presence. Subtle, but there.
He didn’t turn his head, didn’t slow his pace—but he felt it.
“Don’t react,” he murmured.
Layla, walking beside him, glanced up. “What?”
“We’re being followed.”
She tensed slightly, but her expression remained neutral. “You sure?”
Graves adjusted his posture, slowing just enough to catch movement in his peripheral vision.
A man.
Dark hair, lean frame, moving too smoothly through the shifting crowd. He wasn’t browsing, wasn’t haggling. He was watching them.
“Far stall, red canopy,” Graves muttered.
Layla flicked her gaze sideways. “Got him.”
Graves’ mind raced. If the men from the café had found them this fast, it meant they had contacts everywhere. Which meant—
“We can’t lead him to the City of the Dead,” Layla whispered.
She was right. They had to lose him now.
Graves glanced ahead. The market was a twisting maze of narrow alleys and hidden courtyards. Plenty of places to vanish—if they moved fast.
“Follow my lead,” he said.
Layla didn’t hesitate.
They turned a sharp corner into a side street lined with hanging textiles. Graves brushed against a table of brass trinkets, knocking them over. The vendor cursed as metal clattered to the ground.
The distraction was small—but enough.
Graves grabbed Layla’s wrist and pulled her into a dim passage between two buildings. It smelled of damp stone and old earth, barely wide enough for both of them.
They pressed against the wall. Waited.
A moment later—
Footsteps.
The man stopped just outside the passage.
Graves held his breath.
A long silence.
Then—slowly—the footsteps moved past.
They waited another ten seconds before Layla exhaled. “Close.”
Graves nodded. “Too close.”
They stepped back into the street, blending into the market again. The man was gone—for now.
But Graves knew one thing.
Whoever was hunting them wasn’t giving up.
And next time, they might not be so lucky.
A Warning from the Dead
The further they got from Khan el-Khalili, the quieter the city became.
The towering buildings gave way to crumbling stone walls, narrow roads lined with mausoleums, and empty courtyards bathed in the dim glow of flickering street lamps.
Cairo’s City of the Dead wasn’t just a cemetery—it was a world of its own. A vast necropolis stretching for miles, where ancient tombs stood side by side with makeshift homes, some inhabited by families who had lived among the dead for generations.
Graves and Layla moved carefully, stepping over broken stones and past doorways draped in old cloth.
“Where the hell is he?” Layla whispered.
Graves pulled the note from his pocket and reread it. “The sun sets where the dead still whisper. Find the gate, and you’ll find the truth.”
His eyes scanned the shadows. Then he saw it.
A massive stone archway, half-buried in sand. Weathered hieroglyphs lined its surface, their meaning long forgotten.
“That’s it,” Graves murmured.
Layla followed his gaze. “I don’t see anyone.”
Graves didn’t either. But as they approached, a soft click echoed through the air—metal against stone.
Then a voice.
“You led them right to me.”
Graves turned.
The collector stepped from the shadows, his silhouette sharp against the moonlit tombs. His suit was dusty, his normally calm demeanor shaken. And in his hand—a pistol.
Layla’s body tensed beside Graves. “If you’re going to shoot us, at least explain why first.”
The collector exhaled. “I’m not going to shoot you.” He lowered the gun. “But they might.”
Graves frowned. “Who?”
The collector’s jaw tightened. “The same people who killed Dr. Hassan. The same ones who are following you.”
Layla crossed her arms. “And let me guess. You just happened to leave out the part where you work for them?”
The collector let out a dry chuckle. “If I worked for them, I’d be dead by now.”
Graves studied him. The fear in the man’s eyes wasn’t fake.
“What do they want?” Graves asked.
The collector hesitated. Then—quietly—he said:
“Not what. Who.”
A cold weight settled in Graves’ chest. “You mean—”
“Yes.” The collector glanced around as if expecting to see something in the darkness. “They don’t just want Black Sun. They want someone who can find it.”
His gaze locked onto Graves.
“They want you.”
A long silence.
Then—
Somewhere in the distance—
Footsteps.
Heavy. Approaching.
The collector stiffened. “We need to go. Now.”
Graves clenched his fists. He had more questions—too many—but they would have to wait.
Because the hunters had arrived.
And this time, there was no escaping unseen.
The Last Escape
The first gunshot shattered the silence.
Graves didn’t think—he moved.
“Go!” the collector hissed, shoving him toward a narrow passage between the tombs. Layla was already running, her silhouette cutting through the moonlight.
Another shot. Stone exploded near Graves’ shoulder.
They sprinted.
Shadows moved behind them—at least five men, closing fast. Graves ducked low, feet skidding on loose sand as they rounded a corner, weaving deeper into the ancient necropolis.
“Where are we going?” Layla gasped.
The collector barely glanced back. “There’s a tunnel—an old burial chamber.”
Graves didn’t like the sound of that, but the alternative was worse.
Behind them, the pursuers split up, their boots crunching over broken stone.
One of them shouted.
“There! Don’t let them reach the temple!”
Graves’ pulse jumped.
The temple.
Then—it appeared.
A sunken doorway, half-buried in sand, its stone frame marked by Aten’s sun disk. It was ancient, untouched. A hidden temple lost to time.
The collector reached it first. He grabbed the edge of the door and heaved.
With a grinding groan, the stone shifted just enough for them to slip inside.
Graves was the last one through. Just as he pulled the door shut—
A hand grabbed his wrist.
He twisted, slamming an elbow into the attacker’s ribs. The man grunted, losing his grip. Graves shoved the door the rest of the way, sealing them in darkness.
Outside—muffled voices.
Inside—silence.
Then—Layla’s breathless whisper:
“What the hell did we just find?”
Graves turned.
Torches lined the walls, their flames flickering weakly against smooth stone. Carvings stretched from floor to ceiling—scenes of worship, pharaohs kneeling beneath a radiant black sun.
And in the center of the chamber—
A single altar.
Upon it, something glowed faintly in the dim firelight.
A golden disk, covered in delicate hieroglyphs.
Graves stepped forward, pulse racing. He reached out, his fingers brushing the cool metal—
And suddenly—
The truth hit him.
This wasn’t just any relic.
It was Akhenaten’s final discovery.
The secret Samir had died for.
And now, it was in his hands.
The Truth of Black Sun
Graves’ fingers traced the intricate hieroglyphs carved into the golden disk.
The metal was smooth, almost unnaturally preserved. The engravings were unmistakable—Aten’s sun disk, radiating beams downward. But unlike typical depictions of the sun god, these rays didn’t touch worshippers in devotion.
They burned them.
Layla stood beside him, staring. “What does it say?”
Graves exhaled, reading aloud:
“The sun’s eye opened, and the great pharaoh saw its true face.”
He ran his hand lower, following the script.
“It is not a god, but a curse. A fire from beyond. A light that brings only death.”
A chill crawled up his spine.
“This isn’t worship,” Graves muttered. “This is… fear.”
Layla frowned. “Are you saying Akhenaten didn’t follow Aten? He was trying to stop it?”
Graves swallowed hard. “I think Black Sun wasn’t just a religious shift. He saw something—something that made him abandon Egypt’s gods and focus only on Aten.”
The collector spoke for the first time, voice grim. “You mean he discovered that the sun could destroy.”
Graves nodded. “Maybe it was an eclipse. A solar event. Or maybe something worse—something we don’t understand.” He looked at them. “But whatever it was, Akhenaten tried to erase it from history.”
Layla’s lips pressed together. “And Samir found proof.”
Graves looked down at the golden disk, the last piece of an ancient puzzle. He thought about Samir, about the men willing to kill to keep this secret buried.
Then—
A sound.
A low, grinding shift from the entrance.
The stone door was moving.
Layla’s breath caught. “They found us.”
Graves gritted his teeth, clutching the disk.
Their enemies weren’t just after a relic.
They were after the truth.
And now, there was no way out but through them.
The Final Confrontation
The stone door lurched open.
Torchlight spilled into the temple, throwing jagged shadows across the walls.
Then—figures.
The leader stepped in first, his movements calm, assured. The same man from the café ambush. The Russian. His eyes flicked across the chamber, from the ancient carvings to the golden disk in Graves’ hands.
“Professor,” he said smoothly. “Put it down.”
Behind him, three men entered, their guns raised. Trained. Ready.
Graves tightened his grip on the disk. His mind raced—no weapons, no clear escape. The chamber was a tomb, and they were trapped inside it.
Layla’s voice was low, steady. “Who are you working for?”
The Russian gave her a patient smile. “Does it matter?”
Graves exhaled, stalling for time. “You don’t want history. You want silence.”
“Correct.” The Russian stepped forward, his boots echoing off the stone. “Dr. Hassan was… persistent. He thought this discovery belonged to the world.” His smile faded. “He was wrong.”
Layla took a slow step closer. “And now you’re here to bury it again.”
The Russian gave a slight nod. “And you with it.”
One of the gunmen took aim.
Think, dammit.
Graves’ mind raced. The golden disk was their only leverage. If they handed it over, they were dead anyway.
Then—his gaze flicked to the carvings.
The altar.
An idea hit him. Risky. Insane.
But their only shot.
Graves took a slow breath.
And threw the golden disk onto the altar.
For a split second, no one moved.
Then—the temple rumbled.
A deep, guttural groan of shifting stone, like the weight of centuries finally breaking free.
Dust cascaded from the ceiling. A fine beam of light from a hidden crevice caught the surface of the disk—
And the altar collapsed inward.
The floor beneath it gave way, revealing a pit—deep, endless, swallowing the relic into the darkness below.
The Russian’s eyes went wide.
“NO—”
But it was too late.
The disk was gone.
For one heartbeat, silence.
Then—chaos.
Graves lunged at the nearest gunman, slamming into him before he could react. Layla grabbed a loose stone from the floor and hurled it at another’s head.
The collector? He was already moving—snatching the Russian’s own gun straight from his belt.
A shot rang out.
The bullet ricocheted off the temple wall as Graves and Layla ran.
The Russian cursed, recovering, barking orders—but the dust, the shifting rubble, the darkness—everything worked in their favor.
By the time the gunfire started again, Graves and Layla had already vanished into the tunnels beyond.
The temple had swallowed its secret.
And this time, Black Sun would never rise again.
A Professor Once More
The sun hung low over the university courtyard, casting long shadows across the weathered stone steps.
Professor Alexander Graves sat at his desk, staring at a half-finished lecture on his typewriter. The room smelled of old books and ink, the scent of a world that had nothing to do with buried temples and gunfire.
But his mind was still in Cairo.
Still deep in the temple.
Still watching the golden disk vanish into the abyss.
A knock at the door.
Graves sighed. “Come in.”
Layla stepped inside, dressed in her usual sharp confidence. No dust, no blood—just a woman who had survived and had no intention of letting him forget it.
“Didn’t take you for the academic type,” she said, glancing around the office.
Graves leaned back. “And yet, here I am. Back in my cage.”
Layla studied him for a moment. “You miss it already, don’t you?”
Graves exhaled. “Miss nearly getting shot? Not particularly.”
“But?”
He hesitated. Then—
“The truth is buried, Layla.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Black Sun, whatever it was, whatever Akhenaten saw—it’s lost now. Maybe forever.”
Layla tilted her head. “And that bothers you.”
Graves was quiet for a long moment. Then he shrugged.
“Some things aren’t meant to be found.”
Layla smirked. “I’ll pretend I believe you.”
She stepped toward the door, pausing only once. “For what it’s worth… Samir would’ve been proud.”
Graves met her gaze.
And for the first time in days, he allowed himself a small smile.
Layla gave him a final nod, then disappeared down the hall, leaving only the faint scent of Cairo dust in her wake.
Graves exhaled, turned back to his typewriter, and cracked his knuckles.
He had a class to teach.
But somewhere, buried deep in the sands of history, he knew—
Some secrets never stay lost forever.
