The corridor opened into a circular chamber unlike anything they had seen before. No dust. No decay. It was alive.
Blue light pulsed gently beneath their feet, like veins beneath skin. At the center was a perfectly still pool of water, so clear it looked like glass. The air carried a faint scent—something ancient, metallic, almost like the inside of an old machine.
Adam sat by the edge, his legs folded, arms resting on his knees. His breath was calmer now, but his eyes were distant. Mike sat beside him, but he didn't speak. The silence between them—for once—wasn't uncomfortable.
Then the walls began to shimmer.
Symbols started appearing, glowing softly at first—then shifting, moving, forming animated scenes as if the stone had a memory of its own.
Adam stood, entranced. "Dad… look."
The wall showed tall figures—inhuman and majestic—hovering over the Earth, planting seeds of light in the ground. Then came cities: Ur, Memphis, Babylon, Nineveh, Mohenjo-Daro, Mumbai.
They rose—thrived—flashed with brilliance.
Then… crumbled.
One after the other, they disintegrated. Not in war. Not in fire.
They were erased.
A voice echoed faintly through the chamber.
Female. Smooth. Unapologetic.
"We were not born. We were designed.
At the dawn of the Earth, we harvested light.
Magic was code. Divinity was math.
And we chose to remain beneath, in the hollow veins of the world.
We remember what the Surface forgets."
A black, glass-like panel slid out from the wall, floating in midair. Images began to flash—rituals of the harvest, children marked with the "heir's blood," massive engines pulsing with energy fed by living veins.
Mike whispered, "They used the children… as batteries."
Adam's jaw clenched. "Why?"
The voice answered like it heard him.
"Because energy fades. Memory decays.
And the blood of the heir… preserves us."
The final image on the screen was a towering black stone engine—surrounded by bones.
Adam turned away.
"I want to burn this whole place down."
But then—the walls shimmered again. Different symbols. Different energy.
Not divine. Not mechanical.
Wild. Protective.
Adam stepped forward.
"What is that?"
The images formed silhouettes—four-legged creatures, standing beside small children. Glowing eyes. Massive builds. Ears upright, alert.
Dogs.
But not ordinary.
They shimmered with glyphs along their sides, their eyes made of starlight, their bodies part light, part shadow.
Mike read the text below the mural aloud:
"When the Earth opens to devour the Heir,
The Bound Ones will rise.
Forged outside the rule of Pharaoh.
Loyal beyond death.
Four-legged, untamed.
The Guardians."
Adam's eyes widened.
"They were… protectors."
"Yeah," Mike muttered. "They weren't part of the system. They were a threat to it."
Another panel slid open, revealing a scene of betrayal—one guardian taking a blow meant for a child. Then others being slaughtered, surrounded, outnumbered by masked priests. But not before one vanished into the shadows… alive.
"They tried to protect the heirs," Adam whispered. "And the priests killed them for it."
Suddenly, deep from one of the sealed corridors nearby…
A growl.
Low. Deep. Old.
Adam and Mike froze.
It wasn't threatening.
It was calling.
Adam took a step toward the sound, slowly.
"I think one of them survived."
Mike reached for his flashlight. "We're not alone down here."
"No," Adam said, his voice steady now.
"But for once… that might be a good thing."