When he opened his eyes, he recognized nothing save the pain which coursed through his veins. He would have screamed, but a sense of immediate danger refrained him.
As the pain receded and his senses returned, the memories did as well. His body tensed as he recited the code that would unlock the pod in which he had lain dormant for the past five thousand years.
The man had sparkling blue eyes, a small nose, and a barely visible scar above his right brow, which he distractedly scratched as he rose and stepped out into the dark chamber.
“Lights,” he called out.
His voice was deep and hoarse from unuse, but the instruction was recognized nonetheless, and he was soon bathed in brightness.
There were consoles on the walls, but he paid them no heed. Instead, he headed straight for the door, which opened as he approached.
He walked through long, empty, dark halls that lit up as he moved. His pace quickened with every step, as his long idle legs adjusted to the exercise. He was fully aware that had it been a human body, it would have been much more difficult for him to resume normal activity so quickly... but then again, had it been a human body, it would not have endured so long.
A door slid open before him and he entered a smaller, circular room with a seat in its center, and floating panels all around.
He sat and tapped some quick instructions.
A display appeared in the air before him.
His eyes scanned through the writings. Though none of it looked anything like a human language, he understood all of it.
He let out a sigh of relief as he finished going through the report.
The prisoners were awake, though they had not escaped... Yet.
But he knew it now only was a matter of time. They would eventually find a way to break through all of the safeguards.
With a few quick gestures, he sent multiple commands through the machine.
The circular wall around him shifted and faded, as did the ceiling and floor, all replaced with stars.
He glanced to his left and saw it.
Peaceful and unsuspecting.
He had to retrieve the mask and put it back in its place before it was too late.
With another motion of his fingers, he made the ship spin and speed toward the surface of Qojja.
***
How could he have been so wrong?
Never in his wildest dreams would he have guessed that the city of the gods was hidden in the jungle of a different continent! He had always thought it to be closer to the capital.
Another thing he’d been wrong about was that he believed the city to be in ruins, abandoned for hundreds of years.
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This was obviously not the case.
But how could these people have maintained their location secret for so long?
Michael glanced at the mute monks who had returned to the platform and now headed back to the surface, leaving him alone with his lovely hosts.
If these were the only people who knew where the city was, he could see how they had managed to maintain secrecy. Still. With technology, it should have at least appeared on satellite feeds and geological sensors...
“Would you follow us please?”
The bag with the precious journal was now in the hands of one of the smiling women.
They turned and started down a path paved with gold... literally. He had never seen anything like it.
He walked behind them, staring all around.
And what about this god business? These people looked perfectly normal. Nothing godly about them. They were wealthy—technologically and magically advanced—but none of this made them gods.
They walked through emerald arches and crossed bridges over shiny purple waters. Soon, they arrived before a large structure—it, too, seemed made of gold. It had been built following an unusual architectural design, with walls inclined at odd angles.
People stood there, in a court. Four men and three women. One of them in particular drew Michael’s attention.
He had short white hair and pale skin. His clothing, though white as well, was of impeccable taste and hinted at a noble lineage. The man exuded respect and authority.
His back was turned to Michael, as he spoke to another man—one slightly taller, with long black hair, deep brown eyes, wearing a leather jacket, and leaning on a cane.
As they arrived, the conversation stopped, and the white-haired man turned to face Michael. His eyes, too, were white, he realized with a shudder, and a silver pendant hung from his neck. There was something about him that felt different... not just about this one man, but all those gathered here oozed a strangeness he couldn’t quite comprehend or describe.
The man stared at him for a long time.
Finally, he looked at the women who had brought him and snapped: “What is that?”
Michael blushed. He felt dirty at that moment, filthy, as if he had been some piece of trash brought into a clean house by a dog. In fact, the women behaved much like you might have expected such a dog to behave. They lowered their heads and fell to their knees, their voices trembling:
“He was brought with the documents, master. We beg your forgiveness if it displeases you...”
The bag was held up for him, though their eyes remained downcast.
Michael watched with fascination, wondering if he should say or do something... was he expected to kneel as well?
The man with the white hair walked up to the women and took the bag from them without another word. He opened it and glanced inside. A slight smile formed on his lips. It vanished just as quickly as his gaze returned to Michael.
“Go,” he commanded the women as he slowly walked up to the archaeologist. They stood and ran away. “I trust you now fully understand the reason why I summoned you here?”
Michael blinked as he tried to maintain eye contact with this odd person, all the while attempting to come up with an appropriate response.
“Your actions can never be fully clear to one such as me, Uncle.”
The archaeologist was relieved. The words had not been meant for him, but for the man with the cane. He had no time to relax, however, as dread spread inside him. The pieces of the puzzle were slowly falling into place.
But how was this possible? It couldn’t be...
“Don’t sell yourself short, Evken,” said the white-haired man with a wicked smile, his eyes still boring into Michael’s soul. “You are not as stupid as you’d like others to believe. Still... this might prove useful to help you understand how costly your actions can be.”
Michael’s heart was beating fast now, and he could still feel sweat dripping down his neck. He thought he should say something, but the words remained caught in his throat.
As if he had sensed this—or perhaps it was a mere coincidence—the white-haired man suddenly lifted a hand and, with a very casual gesture, slashed his clawed nails across the archaeologist’s throat, cutting it wide open.
Michael’s hands shot up to the wound, but his blood flooded out too fast. He fell to his knees, gurgling.
The man with the cane watched him with sadness. There was pain in those eyes, as well, and perhaps a hint of guilt.
The white-haired man, no longer paying the archaeologist any attention, turned and walked up to Evken. He handed him the bag.
“This belongs to you. I would advise you to take better care of it in the future.”
Michael fell to the ground. He could feel his strength seeping out and darkness engulfing him.
The last thing he saw was the white-haired man—whom he now knew with certainty to be Rakash—leaving the premises as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
He closed his eyes, and all went dark.