A heavy silence hangs in the opulent throne chamber. Torches flicker against the polished obsidian walls, casting long shadows. Memon, draped in royal armor lined with gold, sits upon his elevated throne. Thorak stands to his right, arms crossed, impassive. Takmet, younger and more curious, steps forward, breaking the silence respectfully, but intrigued."Your Majesty… to stand against the gods themselves—you must have more than the Sorceress. Some kind of weapon, perhaps?"
Memnon's lips curl into a cold, knowing smile."You're perceptive, Takmet."
Thorak smirks faintly, clearly aware of what's coming.
Memnon rises from his throne with regal precision. Every movement deliberate, powerful. He strides toward a carved obsidian chest resting beside the dais—its surface inlaid with ancient sigils and golden hieroglyphs.
He opens it.
A faint hum escapes the box, as if something ancient has awoken.
Inside lies a dark metallic staff, gleaming faintly under the torchlight. Its surface is smooth yet marred by time—polished from centuries of use. The head of the staff is sculpted into the fierce visage of a crocodile, jaws slightly parted, its snout ridged and eyes hollowed in reverent detail—a totemic tribute to Ammit. It is double faced.
Memnon lifts it with slow reverence. Purple energy crackles faintly beneath the surface, like a beast stirring within.
He turns toward his generals, eyes burning with conviction."This… is the staff of Ammit."
Takmet leans in, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat.
As Memnon continues."A goddess so feared, the gods dared not destroy her—only seal her away. But I... I am her chosen Avatar. Her fury flows through me. Her power is mine to wield."
A beat. Takmet stares in awe. Even Thorak's usual stoicism cracks with a hint of reverence.
Memnon lowers the staff gently back into the chest, sealing it with a final thud.
He returns to his throne, his voice now a quiet, deadly vow."I will bring the gods to their knees."
The torches flicker again—this time not from wind, but from something darker… watching.
Poor man didn't know Ammit was sealed off and defeated by Merlin, only rumors and stories of Set's defeat, and Ra scaring off Apophis had reached everywhere.
While Takmet raising his ornate vine-carved goblet said."To the defeat of the gods."
Memnon smiling darkly, lifting his own cup replied."To their fall."
They drink.
Suddenly—A strange sound tears through the chamber. A low hum, like the world itself being pulled taut, sharpens into a whirling vortex of energy.
A faint, spiraling distortion appears mid-air. It starts as a swirl of refracted light—clear, glassy, and volatile. Dust and small debris may be pulled toward it.
From the environment, wisps of light and particles are drawn inward toward the spiral. The spiral spins faster, gaining mass and form.
The guards react instantly, blades unsheathed, fanning out to form a protective ring around the throne.
Then—movement within the spiral.
From its center, something begins to emerge. A figure, limb by limb, twisting into being. The body forms like shards of stone being pulled together and reassembled—as if time is reversing, stitching flesh and fabric into reality.
The distortion field contracts. Robes materialize. A hooded head bows slightly forward.
Then—CRACK.
A brief implosion of air snaps the energy away. The vortex vanishes.
Silence.
Only a faint echo remains, fading into stillness. But the tension lingers—thick and electric.
Standing now at the heart of the chamber is Merlin. Hooded. Silent. His presence feels ancient and deliberate.
Memnon rises, his expression unreadable—but his grip tightens around the hilt of his blade. He moves with calm authority, but his eyes are locked on the figure.
Thie figure stands with quiet authority, exuding a magnetic and almost regal presence. His posture is confident, yet composed—shoulders relaxed, head held high, gaze unwavering as he surveys his surroundings with a cool, contemplative expression.
Merlin removing his hood, said calmly and amused."Greetings… to the warlord Memnon."
The flickering torchlight reveals
He has sharp, symmetrical facial features—a strong jawline, high cheekbones, and a well-groomed beard that enhances the angular shape of his face. His skin is pale but healthy, giving him a ghostly, aristocratic elegance. His lips are set in a calm, neutral line, with just the barest hint of a smirk that suggests restrained amusement.
His dark brown hair is neatly combed back, slightly tousled but still intentional, showing off his forehead and strong brow. The hair shines faintly, clean and well-kept, adding to his refined appearance.
Merlin's eyes are dark and intense, their depth carrying both weariness and wisdom—like someone who has lived far longer than he appears. His gaze is penetrating, giving those he looks at the sensation of being studied, measured, or understood in ways they might not comprehend.
Memnon, Takmet, and Thorak narrow their eyes, each stiffening instinctively. The room thickens with wariness.
Thorak with a glance and sharp hand gesture and yelled."Kill the intruder."
Without hesitation, the guards surge forward, swords drawn, boots thudding heavily against the marble floor as they charge the lone figure.
Merlin raisind one hand, fingers barely twitching muttered." Unwise."
In an instant, the ornate carpet beneath their feet shimmers, pulses with arcane energy—and turns liquid.
The rich red fabric warps into magical quicksand, its surface rippling like disturbed water. The moment the first guard's foot touches it, he plunges downward—his legs swallowed instantly.
Chaos erupts
The guards try to halt, but it's too late. One by one, they're dragged into the enchanted trap, their swords slipping from their grasp. The carpet shifts and moves like a living thing, responding to their panic—rippling, sucking, devouring.
One guard struggles, clawing at the floor—his torso still visible, mouth gasping.
Takmet horrified muttered."What sorcery is this…?"
But the more the guards struggle, the faster they sink. Unlike real quicksand, there is no moment of pause—no second chances. One of them freezes in terror, no longer fighting—yet the magic does not relent. He's pulled under just as swiftly, vanishing beneath the surface with a final gulp of enchanted silence.
In seconds, all is still. The carpet lies flat again—smooth, unblemished. As if nothing had happened.
Merlin softly said."I did warn you."
Memnon questions,his voice like steel."Who are you sorcerer?"
Merlin simply answered."I am a friend of the gods. I came here to give you a message, I am taking back the Sorceress and just to warn you, stop your foolish quest."
The tension crackles—one heartbeat away from exploding.
Merlin waves good bye and said."Great to see you."
A subtle shimmer begins around the Merlin's body, like heatwaves distorting the air. The edges of his silhouette ripple unnaturally.
A transparent, spiraling vortex forms at the subject's center—almost like clear liquid spinning rapidly in mid-air, distorting light like warped glass. This vortex expands outward to envelop Merlin completely.
Then Merlin's body begins to twist unnaturally, as if being unraveled by an invisible force. Limbs and torso contort slightly—never grotesque, but clearly supernatural—as if pulled into a spiral.
As the disapparition progresses, fine particles—a mix of faint glowing dust, wisps of energy, and refracted motes—peel away from the Merlin and get sucked into the vortex. These match the swirling motion and fade as they reach the center.
The final moment shows the Merlin's body is compressed into a narrow point, like matter being pulled into a black hole, until only the twisting haze remains.
With a sudden, loud crack—like a lightning strike contained in a bubble—the vortex collapses in on itself with a soft pop of light and the swirling stops. Nothing remains.
On his disappearance Memnon orders Thorak."Find the Sorceress, do not allow him to escape wit her."