Then they moved, and Simon suddenly became scared. Every poison that didn't immediately kill had to wear off at some point, did it not? He must have been inside the chamber for the better part of half an hour now. How long could he expect this illusion to last? Or was he already dead and this simply the afterlife?

  The gag in his mouth seemed almost real. It filled his mouth with the revolting taste of muck and grime, and he retched again, but the girl's hand was like an iron muzzle. Simon's head ached dully, too, another indication that maybe he wasn't hallucinating after all...

  As they moved up the dark, winding staircase, Simon felt the first signs of worry rising inside of him. How long had he been inside the pyramid, delusional or otherwise? Surely someone must have detected his disappearance by now? And what if they had, but no one was coming for him? He hadn't exactly been friendly with any of them, which he had never thought he would regret, but now seemed to have put him at a disadvantage... What if they were happy he was gone?

  But Simon did not want his mind to go there; they had to come for him, they just had to. Morgan wouldn't just leave him down here to rot, would he? Suddenly, he wished he hadn't taken this trip into the heart of the pyramid on his own.

  They had reached the end of the staircase. The shimmering whirlpool in the archway had disappeared, leaving only the faint blueish glow, though this time around it was brighter, cleaner. Apart from this, the only light provided were two torches set into cavities in the wall and the dim glow of the girl's khopesh, whose handle protruded from where it was tied to her waist with a golden ribbon. She surely liked glittering things, thought Simon.

  He looked around himself, realizing almost at once that something was amiss. The swinging axes had disappeared overhead. And then they had made their way back to the narrow passage, only it wasn't narrow any more, it was considerably wider, like the aisle to a king's throne, allowing them to pass side by side comfortably.

  As Simon scanned the floor of the corridor with his eyes, he noticed that the torch he had dropped earlier had vanished, too. What was going on? Was he hallucinating after all? There was no sign of the torch ever having been there, either, but that was not all. The area itself looked much less dusty and derelict, much less ancient. Torches burned on either side of the corridor, and the altar chamber was clean and empty except for the sacrificial table in the middle.

  But Simon could have sworn the room had been littered with bones before...

  “Don't,” hissed the girl as he veered to the left, toward the table. “Do you have a deathwish? There's no need to trigger all the traps... Honestly, how you even made it to the king's room is a mystery...”

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

  On the other side of the room, an open gateway indicated the entrance to the labyrinth. Simon's heart felt considerably lighter at the sight. Someone, one of his excavation team no doubt, must have recently been down here to open it. At last this madness was about to end.

  On the other side of the gateway, Simon was forced to a stop with an abrupt jerk, stumbled backwards and collided with something firm and warm that hissed irritably when he trod on its foot.

  The girl had frozen in place, and he immediately knew why: Through the darkness of the labyrinth came more voices, strings of conversation, and heavy footsteps. Whoever was speaking, however, was too far away for him to make out the meaning of their words, but he thought that this must quite certainly be his excavation team, coming to rescue him.

  Unfortunately, the girl seemed to grasp onto the same idea as well, because she pushed him into one of the corridors of the maze and flat against the wall. Standing side by side, he could see that she wasn't much shorter than him. Now that she was this close, he could also smell her scent, like a perfume. A mixture of honeysuckle and warm sand that was not unpleasant in his nose. Her breath tickled the nape of his neck and sent a pleasant shiver over his spine.

  This is hardly the time, said a disapproving voice sternly inside his head.

  The voices had come closer now, they were almost on them. Two oddly elongated shadows were thrown against the wall opposite of them by their torch. The flame flickered gently when they moved.

  “We're almost there,” the voice was deep, raucous, and distinctly male. What was more, it did not speak English, or any other language he recognized as contemporary. Just like the girl at his side, the man had spoken in Ancient Egyptian. Had the whole world gone mad?

  The response was a much younger-sounding, non-committal grunt, then the voices and footsteps passed their hiding place, and Simon struggled against his bindings and succeeded in spitting out the gag. The footsteps stopped.

  “What was that?” said the first, raucous voice, somewhere in the shadows in front of them.

  Simon held his breath, although he wasn't sure why. It felt like the situation in which one should hold their breath. Something told him that the girl's company, if disturbing, was (yet again) preferable to either of the others'.

  “Move!” the first voice commanded then, and light footsteps, as thought the men were now walking on tiptoes over the sandy limestone floor, set off in the direction of the altar room.

  “Go, now,” hissed the girl to Simon after a few minutes of silence.

  “Not so quick, princess,” said the first voice, right next to them, making both of them jump.

  “RUN!” shouted the girl, and he needed no other motivation.