Desolate.

Dreadful.

Dismal.

The torches produce no light. The grand temple disappears from the naked eye. It all disappears in a bleak, darkness. A gust of wind blows by, tickling the ears as it picks up the sand on the ground.

The air is dry as the wind blows by.

Her feet are stuck on the ground, unable to move as her heart thumps in her chest. Her mind begs for her legs to move, her eyes beg to see. Her body is out of her own control as she's trapped within the harsh grasp of a God. Her chest heavily heaves, up and down, up and down.

And Marc is nowhere to be found.

Or Steven

She's all alone in this place... trapped, with no way out.

It all happened so quickly... too quickly. She doesn't even remember how she got here... as if her mind is playing tricks on her.

Lost in this sea of darkness, Cleo reaches out blindly, her fingers grazing the rough stone walls of the temple. But even the touch of the stone offers no solace, for it feels cold, as if drained of life, as if the temple itself mourns the presence of Anubis.

Every sound becomes amplified, magnified by the absence of light. The distant scurrying of rodents sounds like a cacophony of malicious whispers, the gusts of wind resemble the baying of lost souls, and the shifting sand beneath her feet feels like the restless stirrings of forgotten phantoms.

Her mind is a turbulent maelstrom of fear and uncertainty. She can no longer trust her own perceptions, for the darkness distorts and manipulates, playing tricks on her senses. Shadows dance and flicker along the walls, taking on grotesque forms that seem to taunt and torment her. She catches glimpses of figures lurking in the periphery of her vision, their eyes gleaming with an insatiable hunger.

A bone-chilling chill permeates the air, as if the breath of the underworld itself is unleashed within the temple. Cleo's skin prickles with goosebumps, her every nerve on edge. She can almost taste the stale, oppressive atmosphere, the taste of forgotten rituals and ancient sacrilege.

" Did you truly believe you could outwit the gods?"

Cleo turns around as if to find the source of the voice. It appears in all places and in none. It sounds as if it's coming from all around her, all at once.

The torch slips from her hands as they tremble. The once mighty Cleopatra Hassan now crumbling beneath the heavy foot of the jackal-headed god.

" Look at you, trembling in fear."

The God chuckles, cackling at her feeble state. Cleo's senses betray her. She has no weapons, no means of defending herself... but what weapons would be able to strike the God of Death?

" I can taste it. It is sweet, like the nectar of defeat. How delightful it is to witness your downfall."

Anubis' taunting laughter reverberates through the chamber, amplifying the sense of dread that engulfs Cleo. His voice seems to surround her, coming from every direction, echoing off the walls with a chilling resonance.

As Cleo tries to steady her trembling hands, she feels a searing pain in her temples. A sharp, piercing headache courses through her skull, as if Anubis is digging his claws into her mind, unraveling her sanity thread by thread. She cries out in agony, her eyes snapping shut as her hands fly to her head in an attempt to reduce the level of pain.

The darkness continues to play tricks on her senses, distorting her perception of reality. Illusions dance before her eyes, flickering shadows that whisper in sinister tones. She sees fleeting glimpses of her own reflection, twisted and contorted into a grotesque mockery of herself.

"Your feeble attempts to resist only bring you closer to your ultimate demise," Anubis taunts, his voice laced with sadistic pleasure, "The more you struggle, the tighter my grip becomes. Surrender, Cleo, and embrace your fate."

Cleo's chest tightens as she battles the suffocating pressure of Anubis' presence. She fights to maintain her composure, to cling to her sense of self amidst the onslaught of psychological torment. But doubt creeps into her thoughts, whispering insidiously that perhaps Anubis is right, that resistance is futile.

She takes a step forward, her feet sinking into the ancient sand. The grains shift and swirl beneath her, like a living entity, guiding her deeper into the heart of darkness. Her heart pounds in her chest, each beat a reminder of her mortality in the face of an immortal god.

Suddenly, the air grows thick with a putrid stench, the scent of decay and rot. It seeps into Cleo's nostrils, assaulting her senses with its repulsiveness. The taste of bile rises in her throat, a bitter reminder of the horrors that lie in wait.

Anubis' voice echoes once again, colder and more deranged.

"Do you hear them, Cleo? The tormented souls that cry out in eternal suffering. They yearn for your company, for your soul to join them in this wretched abyss. Will you deny them?"

Cleo's head spins as she tries to make sense of the torment inflicted upon her. The darkness plays with her mind, warping her perception of time and space. She loses track of how long she has been trapped within this labyrinthine nightmare, the concept of escape slipping further from her grasp.

The walls of the temple seem to close in around her, suffocating her with their oppressive presence. Each step she takes feels heavier than the last, as if the weight of the world rests upon her shoulders. Doubt gnaws at her resolve, threatening to shatter the last remnants of her strength.

But Cleo refuses to yield, her willpower ignited by a flickering flame of defiance. With each step she takes, the oppressive darkness engulfs her, threatening to suffocate her spirit. The tormenting illusions persist, twisting her perception and fueling her fears, like tendrils of malevolence coiling around her vulnerable psyche.

As she ventures deeper into the temple, the shadows converge, writhing like ethereal serpents hungry for her sanity. Their sinuous forms writhe and dance with sinister grace, whispering in ancient tongues of curses and promises of eternal suffering. Cleo's mind spins, caught in a labyrinth of distorted realities, where the line between truth and illusion blurs into an indistinguishable haze.

The chamber she enters is a macabre gallery of death, adorned with murals that depict morbid rituals of rebirth. The air grows stale, heavy with the lingering scent of ancient resins and embalming agents. Sarcophagi, like sentinels of the underworld, stand sentinel along the walls, their cold stone surfaces etched with the weight of countless souls trapped within their eternal slumber.

A chilling voice, dripping with perverse delight, reverberates through the chamber, echoing in the depths of Cleo's soul.

"Behold your destiny," It hisses, seeping into her bones, "Witness the fate that awaits you in the afterlife. Your mortal shell shall be preserved, your essence bound in eternal slumber."

The chamber trembles, its ancient stones pulsating with a malevolent energy. Cleo's body responds against her will, compelled by an unseen force, drawing her toward an ornate sarcophagus at the center of the room. It opens, revealing a hollow cavity lined with silk wrappings, like a cocoon of death awaiting its final inhabitant. The desolate voice of Anubis reverberates within her mind, a symphony of despair.

"Lie down, Cleo," Anubis commands, his voice a seductive whisper,"Embrace the cold embrace of death. Feel the bindings tighten around you, relinquishing control to the inevitable."

Panic surges through Cleo's veins, a torrent of adrenaline rushing to combat the paralyzing fear. Her fight-or-flight response overrides her trembling limbs, fueling her defiance against the encroaching darkness. Her instincts tell her to run. To fight. To flee. To do anything other than step into the sarcophagus... but she has no choice. Her body is not within her control.

Her feet as lifted and moved without her brain telling them to do so. Her body walks all on its own, as if she nothing more than a puppet with Anubis pulling her strings. Her heart pounds and her breath shakes as she nears the sarcophagus. Her breathing intensifies. She hyperventilates, finding a bit of strength to place her hands on the outside of the sarcophagus, trying to fight the will of the god... but she's not strong enough.

Cleo is shoved into the sarcophagus with a cold gust of wind. Her back lays against the hard stone, as her hands are puppeteered to cross over her chest.

The air within the sarcophagus grows stale, heavy with the weight of impending doom. Cleo's body lies prone, limbs arranged in a macabre mimicry of repose, her hands forcibly crossing over her chest. The bindings of fate tighten around her, a cold embrace that constricts her movements, ensnaring her in a web of inevitability.

Her senses become hypersensitive, every touch magnified a thousandfold. The silk wrappings, once soft and delicate, now scrape against her skin with an eerie harshness, like the caress of skeletal fingers. Each fiber seems to coil around her, securing her in a cocoon of desolation, as if the very fabric of existence itself conspires to bind her to the realm of the dead.

The scent of ancient resins fills the air, invading Cleo's nostrils with a suffocating presence. It clings to her senses, permeating her every breath, as if embalming her from within. The mingling aroma of frankincense and myrrh mixes with the faint hint of decay, a reminder of the ephemeral nature of life and the inexorable march towards oblivion.

A chorus of whispers echoes in the chamber, disembodied voices that seem to emanate from the depths of the underworld. They swirl around Cleo's ears, murmuring ancient incantations, entwining her consciousness with their haunting verses. Each word is laden with the weight of forgotten rituals, their meaning lost to the annals of time, yet their resonance reverberates within her very soul.

Her vision blurs, reality merging with illusion as the darkness within the sarcophagus deepens. Shadows dance along the stone walls, taking grotesque forms that twist and contort, whispering secrets of forgotten tombs and lost souls. The very boundaries of her perception unravel, as if the veil between life and death has been temporarily lifted, revealing glimpses of the ethereal realm beyond.

A numbing cold seeps into Cleo's bones, as if the breath of the underworld itself wafts through the narrow confines of her final resting place. It creeps beneath her skin, chilling her to the core, as the essence of death invades her being. She feels the weight of centuries pressing down upon her, the accumulated sorrow and despair of countless souls mingling with her own, as if they seek solace in shared anguish.

Time slows to a crawl, elongating into an eternity within the confines of the sarcophagus. Cleo's consciousness teeters on the precipice of surrender, her thoughts mingling with the whispers of the ancients, her existence poised at the brink of oblivion. The boundary between life and death blurs, the threads of her identity unraveling as she teeters on the edge of annihilation.

"Every step you took, every decision you made, has led you to this moment of reckoning. Your arrogance led you to challenge a god. Now, you will witness the futility of your defiance."

Within the depths of the sarcophagus, Cleo's lungs beg for air, grasping for it wherever they can find it. Returning to her ears are the malice and maddening trio of barking dogs, the sound that echoes in her mind and swirls all around her head, until she's at her breaking point, screaming and crying and attempting to thrash, only to be held back by some invisible force.

Her eyes draw blanks, unable to see anything beyond the coarse confinements of the wrappings. Her ears still listen to the maddening barks, and within them swirl voices that are familiar yet foreign all at once.

It's the voice of a mother... or rather, mothers.

" You were supposed to keep him safe."

" Not now."

" This is all your fault!"

" Go away!"

" Open this door right now!"

" I said not now!"

" You're gonna learn to listen."

" Go to your room!"

" Why do you have to make me do this?"

" Why can't you just leave me alone?"

The voices of Wendy Spector and Akila Hassan rings through Cleo's ears, taunting her, torturing her, making her relive not only her own trauma... but Marc's.

Cleo's screams reverberate through the chamber, a desperate cry for release from the torment that has ensnared her mind. Yet, as her voice echoes into the abyss, the darkness absorbs her anguish, suffocating her cries. It is as if the very fabric of her being is absorbed by the relentless void.

Then, with a sudden shift, Cleo's senses are jolted. The suffocating darkness dissipates, and she finds herself standing in the familiar surroundings of her flat in London. The air is still, devoid of the malevolent whispers that plagued her in the temple. She sighs in relief, her shoulders sagging as she believes she has finally escaped Anubis' clutches. Home, the thought whispers in her mind, a sanctuary of safety.

Her eyes scan the room, taking in the familiar furniture, the photographs on the walls, and the soft glow of the lamp beside her bed. She steps forward, feeling the plush carpet beneath her feet, the comforting touch of her home. A smile of relief curls upon her lips, for in this moment, the weight of her burden seems to lift.

Her mind doesn't even consider to think about how she ended up back here. It's sucked into the fantasy without hesitation, for it brings her a sense of calm.

Cleo's eyes search for Ana, gazing all around, seeing if perhaps she's fallen asleep under the bed, but she isn't there, or anywhere else in the room for that matter.

Her heart drops into her stomach as her throat grows dry. Her head slowly turns to the bedroom door, then slowly trail down to find a splatter of blood stained on the floor... one in the shape of a tiny paw. She goes closer, and closer, and closer to the door, her head shaking as she grasps the handle and pulls the door back.

A horrid gasp escapes Cleo's lips once her eyes land on the corpse on the floor, with blood splattered all around Ana's black fur. It's a decrepit warning, one that reminds her she hasn't escaped... she's still trapped.

"Do you feel it? The weight of your choices, the burden of your mistakes? They bear down upon your shoulders, threatening to crush your spirit. Embrace the despair, for it is the only companion you shall have in the end."

Cleo's sprit is broken. Her mind and body are tired, exhausted. What is the point in going on if this is truly her fate? What is the point in continuing to fight if she'll only be delaying the inevitable?

Down the hall, Anubis' form appears as Cleo's body still kneels before her dead companion, crying mournful tears as her heart hangs heavy. The God steps closer, his heavy feet thudding against the floors, his sharp canines shining in the dim light as his eyes glow with malice intent.

" At long last."

Anubis' voice drips with sadistic glee as he revels in Cleo's torment. His words are designed to strip away her confidence and exploit her vulnerabilities, feeding on her fears and doubts. His sharp claws spring forward, in order to plunge into her chest and claim her heart once and for all... but at that same time, in Cleo's hand appears her sharp and golden blade. Her fingers tightly grasp around the tilt and then bring it forward to plunge the blade deep into the God's chest, his claws standing a mere inches away from her pounding heart. Cleo's head slowly lifts, revealing her face covered in a thin layer of sweat, her brows furrowed, jaw clenched and eyes blazing with an ethereal rage, a color that matches her golden blade as it burns the black jackal.

" Your chaos will end, Anubis... and it will end by my hand."

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[ ✨ spooky ✨ also yes i promise we will get more jake and more khonshu. what did y'all think of this chapter? ]