Alexander then appeared standing atop the Memnon palace, his keen eyes surveyed the chaos unfolding below. The bright red ball of pulsating energy, released moments ago in Philos' laboratory, had erupted into a fiery explosion, engulfing the room in a maelstrom of destruction.
From his vantage point, Merlin watched as guards scrambled towards the source of the blast, their shouts echoing through the night air. But Merlin's attention was elsewhere. With a focused mind, he closed his eyes and reached out with his senses, seeking the location of Cassandra.
After finding her, a surge of energy pulsed around him, shimmering with otherworldly power. In a swift motion, Merlin vanished from the palace rooftop, leaving behind only a lingering trace of magic in the air.
Again Merlin arrived in the room, where he sensed Cassandra, Merlin looked aound himself within a strange room of the palace, and he slammed the doors shut and barricaded them with an ornate chest. He turned to get his bearings. This was no magician's lair... and yet it was. This was a goldenhued sandstone chamber whose hieroglyph decorations seemed feminine, a sensation enhanced by delightful scents of oil and flowers and incense. He knew at once he was in Cassandra's quarters; not in her bedroom, or living chamber, no—this was an indoor bathing pool. And he knew it belonged to the sorceress, because Cassandra herself lay within the huge bath, her lovely head and a shoulder looming above a surface covered with rose petals. Her almond eyes grew large— she may have been a prophet, but she had clearly not anticipated his entry into her quarters, and was dumbstruck.
But, then, so was he. The sorceress's handmaidens, who'd been tending her alongside the pool, which took up most of the floor space in the modestsized chamber, were not struck dumb: they screamed like frightened children, and ran into the adjacent rooms of their mistress's quarters.
Three guards burst into Cassandra's candlelit bathroom, weapons drawn and eyes burning with purpose.
But Merlin was faster.
With a sharp thrust of his hand, a wave of invisible force erupted from his palm—a telekinetic blast that hurled the guards backwards like ragdolls. They slammed into the far wall with a bone-rattling crack.
Before they could recover, Merlin's fingers carved symbols through the air, his voice a low incantation. The very stone beneath them responded.
An earth-binding spell.
From the wall they'd crashed against, thick layers of rock surged forward like liquid stone turned solid—wrapping around the guards' limbs and torsos, fusing them to the wall. They struggled, grunting, but the enchanted stone held firm.
Merlin placed a hand on the bewitched wall, its surface pulsing faintly under his touch. The room trembled, then fell into silence once more—only the flicker of firelight and the restrained breath of Cassandra lingering in the air.
Quickly the regal Cassandra regained her poise, and she rose from the rose-cloaked water, throwing back the damp mane of her long dark hair, displaying every inch of her golden, wellformed flesh, perfect breasts, narrow waist, the flare of hips, flawless skin pearled with moisture, every female secret shared. She stood with her arms at her sides and her chin, and her breasts, held high. No woman had ever been more at ease with her beauty as she said, "Well, sorcerer? Are you going to take me away, or just stare?"
Merlin shook his head and said,"I am going to take you back on the orders of Goddess Isis, so come with me."
Cassandra was in shock, but Merlin didn't have time for this since he knew the handmaidens would have alerted the guards.
So he quickly went and grabbed her, while disapparating away with the Sorcereress.
He appears with the Sorcereress held close to him closed alley.Merlin looked down at Sorcereress to her long hair streaming with water, her golden skin beaded with droplets — whirled at Merlin, no longer in the grip of their shared predicament, her regal bearing returning in full force. Her longnailed fingers turned to claws and her hands flew toward the Merlin's face.
But Merlin stopped her and said,"Please this for your own safety, so please cooperate with me. I am really going to take you too, Goddess Isis. "
There was hint of recognition in her eyes, she slightly nodded and said nothing, her chin high... but trembling, perhaps with the chill of the water ... perhaps from something else.
"I suggest we find you something to wear," he said. "You may catch cold in your bare skin ... and more unwanted attention."
Merlin conjured a bedouin robes and scarves from a washerwoman, Cassandra wore it without complaining.
The torches lining the black-stone throne room flickered uneasily as Memnon paced with silent fury, his footsteps echoing like distant war drums. Shadows twisted across the walls—tall, ancient figures that seemed to watch, to whisper.
The doors groaned open.
Thorak entered briskly, his boots clicking against the marble floor, with Takmet following two paces behind like a loyal hound.
Memnon turned, his voice low and razor-edged. "Did he take the Sorceress?"
Thorak bowed his head. "Yes, Your Majesty. We failed. He vanished with her—into the wind."
He hesitated, something bitter in his throat. "Philos is missing as well."
A muscle in Memnon's jaw twitched. His hands clenched at his sides, but he didn't explode. Not yet. Instead, he exhaled, slow and deliberate, forcing calm like a blade being sheathed.
"Bring me the Chinese Divination Master," he commanded coldly.
Thorak signaled the guards. A few tense moments later, they returned—dragging a frail, ragged old man. The Divination Master's long beard was tangled, his robes stained from neglect, yet his eyes shimmered with a quiet, unsettling clarity.
Memnon approached him like a viper. "Diviner," he said, "you want your freedom? Earn it. A pest has stolen my Sorceress. Find him."
The old man didn't speak at first. He knew the offer was a lie—freedom would never come. He was Cassandra's insurance, the backup in case the true Seer fell. His visions were flawed, less pure, less precise—but still dangerous.
And then, something caught his gaze.
A veil lifted.
He saw it—not clearly, not the moments of death, but the places. The faint silhouettes of death clung to Memnon, Thorak, and Takmet like cold mist. They were marked.
If he played this right, he might not just survive—he might be free.
He bowed slightly, voice gravelly but steady. "The Sorceress is being taken… to the Valley of the Dead."
Memnon's eyes lit with purpose. He turned to Thorak, expression hardening. "This is your chance to reclaim your honor. Bring her back. Bring Cassandra back."
He drew a slender dagger from his belt—its sheath carved with ancient runes, pulsing faintly with a sickly glow. He placed it into Thorak's hand.
"This blade is cursed," he said softly. "One cut, even a scratch, and the curse begins. They wither. They rot. Slowly."
Menon then nodded."Also, take one of the enchanted armours with you."
Thorak accepted the dagger with a nod, unaware he was already walking toward his grave.