The first blast was deafening, a fiery explosion that ripped through the narrow corridor of the Great Pyramid’s hidden chamber. Turiya shielded her face as shards of ancient sandstone flew past her, the air thick with smoke and the acrid tang of burning machinery. Somewhere behind her, illuminated by the flickering orange flame of their makeshift torch, Ishara was shouting—words drowned out by chaos—her delicate fingers clutching a rolled parchment as though it held the secrets of the universe. Turiya didn’t stop to look back. They had seconds, perhaps less, before the trap reset.
Their pursuers were close, closer than either woman had dared hope they’d never be. Turiya’s chest heaved under the weight of the sapphire-hued linen tunic she wore, its wide open sleeves cinched at her wrist by intricate golden bracelets shaped like roaring lions. While designed for agility, the heavy embroidery hugging her waist—a vivid ring of cobalt and gold geometric patterns—compromised her speed in this desperate flight. Her matching indigo veil, once pristine and edged with minuscule silver beads that caught any hint of light, now clung to her perspiring face, streaked with the dark grime of their mission. Her loosely braided cascade of jet-black hair threatened to escape the confines of the veil, framing her sharp cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes—eyes that burned with a determination no explosions or adversaries could extinguish.
“Left!” Ishara barked, her normally serene voice cutting through the thick swirl of smoke. The younger woman’s own outfit—a simpler reddish-brown robe she’d worn for disguise while they infiltrated the temple—hung in tatters, revealing the bronzed curves of her shoulder beneath a lattice of ceremonial scars marking her as a descendant of Ra’s priestess clan. But it was Turiya people followed, Turiya who commanded the loyalty of their dwindling group of rebels. She didn’t falter. She turned to the left passage, the metallic taste of adrenaline souring her mouth, as the echoes of feet thundered ever nearer behind them.
Hours earlier, there had been a different kind of silence. One of awe, of discovery. Turiya had stood at the heart of an ancient temple, the High Sun casting golden rays through a circular aperture far above her. There, among the ruins and crumbling statues of hawk-headed gods, she had emanated an elegance that rivaled any of the deities sculpted in stone. Her figure was statuesque but not unapproachable, her curves the product of a life hardened by survival yet softened by natural grace. The ensemble she wore was both a nod to her heritage and a defiance of it—a deliberate reclamation of what their ancestors had built before the invaders came, before this empire fractured into warring city-states.
The tunic, an intense sapphire blue, shone brilliantly in the sun’s radiant aura. It was dyed using ancient pigments Turiya herself had helped retrieve from a forgotten artisan’s tomb two years prior. The fabric clung just enough to display her strength without diminishing her femininity, its diagonal pleats pulled taut across her torso to highlight her form. Around her neck she wore a wide collar of copper and turquoise, its inlaid gems refracting the golden light and casting shimmering patterns onto the sandy floor. Beneath the tunic flowed a skirt of loose, ankle-grazing panels, each one weaving delicate threads of obsidian and gold into illustrations of the Nile’s life-giving waters. Even her sandals, fashioned from layers of supple leather, bore traces of crimson dye on their straps, a subtle echo of the blood-soaked history she carried with her.
Turiya’s expression during the exploration had been an intricate puzzle: her full lips curved slightly at the edges in quiet amusement, yet her deep-set almond eyes betrayed an unshakable resolve. She stood poised as though listening to the whispers of the forgotten dead, her shoulders square under the veil’s shimmering folds. It was draped loosely about her face then, offering just enough concealment to maintain her air of mystery while still allowing the occasional glint of sun to illuminate her high brow or the gentle slope of her neck. She had held a bronze scepter in her right hand as Ishara studied the ancient carvings at the far wall of the chamber. It wasn’t until Ishara had gasped, a soft but distinct noise, that the serenity of the moment fractured. The hunters were coming, and they had found them even here.
They had prepared for ambushes, but not for betrayal. Someone in the rebel network had sold them out, and Turiya knew exactly who—though there would be no time, nor the luxury of vengeance, until they escaped this deathtrap. The enemy wasn’t only flesh; it was the very temple itself, ancient mechanisms groaning to life as their weight triggered hidden pressure points. They barely managed to avoid the cascade of spiked stones that dropped from the ceiling of the corridor behind them. The fresco-adorned walls trembled, carved jackal faces releasing streams of boiling sand that burned as it brushed against the bare skin of Ishara’s legs.
“The map!” Turiya shouted, her voice as commanding as it was urgent. “We’ll lose it in the flame!” She pulled Ishara into an alcove just as another explosion sounded, this time blasting from the far end of the chamber behind them. The sacrifice was necessary. Light was growing scarcer now, the sun above them choked by a plume of unnatural black smoke rising through the pyramid’s vents.
Guided by instinct alone, they pushed forward. Every detail of the temple had been burned into Turiya’s memory—from the intricate bas-reliefs of pharaohs long forgotten to the coded hieroglyphics engraved along the walls. Their destination, the fabled Chamber of Ra, called to her across millennia, promising liberation for her people in the form of an artifact powerful enough to turn empires to dust. But the hunters weren’t far now, their leather-wrapped armor and obsidian blades perfect contrasts to the vibrant attire Turiya bore. As she turned to face Ishara, sapphire catching the dim light like a jewel lost in shadow, she knew this moment would demand everything of her.
“We’re close,” she whispered, a faint but unshakable smile on her face. “Don’t stop running.”
The smoke parted for just an instant, and there, ahead of them, glimmered the golden hue of the chamber’s threshold. Turiya adjusted her veil, tightening it before pulling the dagger from her calf sheath. She would not go quietly—and neither would the secrets of her ancestors.
Genre: Historical Fantasy
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Cobalt Blue Power Suit with Satin Sheen: Bold Double-Breasted Blazer and High-Waisted Flared Trousers for Fearless Modern Style
Disclaimer: This article may contain affiliate links. If you click on these links and make a purchase, we may receive a commission at no additional cost to you. Our recommendations and reviews are always independent and objective, aiming to provide you with the best information and resources.
Get Exclusive Stories, Photos, Art & Offers - Subscribe Today!
3 comments