Legend XL – The Pharaoh's Curse

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In the desert, where even the wind is too weary to erase its tracks, tales are told of a tomb beneath a dune that never shifts. There rests a pharaoh whose name has been erased from every record; he was known as the Forgotten One. The ancients warned: "Whoever disturbs his sleep loses more than their life." But people rarely heed warnings. Among them was Selima, a young archaeologist whose eyes were like searching stars. On a damaged papyrus, she found a fragment: the drawing of a sarcophagus surrounded by black suns. Between the incised symbols, she discerned a hint—in the Forgotten One's tomb lay not gold, but a piece of bound time. When her caravan reached the motionless dune, the air felt heavy, as if it were listening. As they dug, they unearthed a door of black basalt, set into it eyes that shimmered like glass in the torchlight. As Selima placed her hand on it, the door opened silently, revealing a long corridor. Wall paintings accompanied her: priests with excessively long shadows, and the pharaoh himself—depicted with a crown, but without a face. “They’ve completely cut him out of history,” Selima whispered. The corridor led into a tall chamber. In its center stood the sarcophagus, a dark, glowing stone surrounded by concentric circles of sand that rotated without a breath of air. On the lid was a single inscription: “Not death is my curse, but awakening.” As Selima placed her hand on it, the torches went out. Darkness fell like a heavy blanket. A voice, deep as an underground stream, rose within her: “Who disturbs those who were not allowed to die?” Selima wanted to answer, but her words hung somewhere in the darkness. Images flooded her mind: the pharaoh stepping alive into the sarcophagus; priests sacrificing their shadows; The curse that bound him—not to death, but to endless duration. “Whoever awakens me,” the voice said, “will become part of my eternity.” Selima felt invisible threads tugging at her memories. Faces detached themselves first. Places. Words. She fought desperately against it, clinging to the memory of the starry sky above the desert—warm, clear, sacred. For a heartbeat, the grip loosened. A torch flared again. The sarcophagus glowed more intensely now, as if something were awakening that had not yet decided whether to see or devour. Inside, no body pulsed, but a form of light and shadow—like a heart outlined by time itself. “Go,” the voice said, now almost gently. “Through your eyes, I will see what has become of the world that forgot me.” Selima fled up the corridor. The murals seemed to reach out to her, their shadows curling like hands. When she reached the dune, it was night. Her companions lay motionless in the sand—empty shells devoid of memory. From that day on, Selima was seen in many cities, roaming the world, notebooks filled with undecipherable symbols.