The world was still dreaming when the first broadcasts began.
Screens across every nation lit with live footage from the ancient temple site where the seventh chamber had at last been cleared.
Cameras rolled, drones hovered, and the whispers of history roared like distant thunder.
This was not just gold. It was something older, deeper, untouched by the turning of time.
Inside the chamber, experts and priests moved with the reverence of men stepping into a place not meant for mortal feet. The walls shimmered with sheets of gold set against fire-darkened stone. Statues of long-forgotten kings stood guard over locked treasure chests and scrolls wrapped in royal silk, each piece perfectly preserved.
Yet it was not the wealth that made the world's breath catch—it was the writings. Ancient scripts covered the walls, scrolls, and books, written in tongues many believed lost forever. Tamil, Aramaic, Sanskrit, Syriac, and symbols so old they defied naming.
One scholar, his voice trembling as if he feared the words themselves, told the watching world, "These aren't just records. They're encounters. Kings wrote about beings who visited them… beings they called gods." Another added in hushed certainty, "They say knowledge was handed down to them. Not by spirits. Not by humans. Something in between."
A scroll was unrolled with careful hands, its edges brittle yet its ink glowing faintly in the torchlight.
The words seemed to breathe as they were read aloud: "He walked between us in silence. His eyes saw through time. His voice shattered mountains. He gave no name, only balance."
The camera shifted to a golden pedestal. Atop it sat a sealed glass tube, and within it a sketch—of a man with long hair, a circle glowing on his hand. Around him were stars, or perhaps flames, his tall calm form surrounded by kneeling figures. Below the image, a caption etched in gold read, "The Last To Hold The Flame."
Far away in the palace, a television in the family lounge played the broadcast softly. Sophia sat beside Sara while Baba stood near the window. Jabir, Malik, and Amir rested nearby. Mirshad was not in the room. Shaji, sipping his tea, looked up at the screen and froze. His wife leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "That man… he looks like Mirshad.
From years ago… before his body changed." Silence filled the room. Sara laughed lightly, almost forced. "Maybe it's the hair. He had that same build… before."
Sophia did not join in the laugh. Her gaze stayed fixed on the image, and her hand moved instinctively to rest upon her belly. A shiver, faint yet unshakable, passed through her.
In the garden beyond, Mirshad and Rayyan walked slowly through the grass wet with morning dew.
The birds were singing overhead and the breeze was cool against their faces. They spoke of nothing that concerned temples or ancient mysteries. They laughed about childhood stories, teased each other about their clumsy wedding dance steps, and wandered into talk of baby names and favourite dishes. Two brothers breathing in peace, nothing more and nothing less.
But back at the temple, the head priest had opened an ancient book whose pages were made from a thin metal-like cloth.
When the air moved, one phrase began to glow as though written in light itself. "They gave us the knowledge to guard. But not the truth to claim. When the silence returns, let us remember… even gods once bowed to something greater."
The feed cut to black. Across the world, a stillness fell. And the one they were all unknowingly searching for was in the sunlight, walking beside his brother, laughing as though none of it had anything to do with him. Because to him, it never had.