Shadows of Departure

Determined, Elias sought out his father. He found Lucian Blackthorn in the conservatory, tending to a rare magical orchid that shimmered with an ethereal light.

"Father," Elias began, his voice steady, "I need to travel to Egypt."

Lucian looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Egypt? For what purpose?"

Elias hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "There's something I need to find. A relic of great importance."

Lucian set down his tools, giving his son his full attention. "Such a journey requires planning. I can arrange the necessary legal approvals and contacts to ensure your safety."

Elias shook his head. "I appreciate that, but I intend to go alone, and discreetly. Drawing attention could lead others to what I'm seeking."

Lucian studied his son, sensing the weight behind his words. "This isn't a mere artifact, is it?"

Elias met his father's gaze. "It's a scepter, Father. Ancient, powerful. Comparable to the Elder Wand."

Lucian's expression darkened. "The Elder Wand is no myth. Our family's history books speak of its devastating power. If this scepter is truly its equal, then you're venturing into dangerous territory."

"I understand the risks," Elias replied. "But the potential benefits are too great to ignore."

Lucian sighed, the weight of concern evident on his face. "Do you require assistance? Guards? Resources?"

Elias shook his head. "No. This is something I must do alone."

At that moment, Seraphina Blackthorn entered the conservatory, a tray of tea in her hands. She sensed the tension immediately.

"What's going on?" she inquired, setting the tray down.

Lucian turned to her. "Our son plans to journey to Egypt in search of a powerful relic."

Seraphina's eyes widened slightly, then she looked at Elias. "Is this truly necessary?"

Elias nodded. "Yes. But I promise to be careful."

She approached him, placing a gentle hand on his cheek. "I know once you've set your mind to something, there's no changing it. Just promise me you'll return safely."

"I promise," Elias whispered.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Elias prepared for his journey. He packed essential items: enchanted maps, protective charms, and, of course, the Book of Gods. Dressed in travel robes that shimmered with protective enchantments, he stood at the manor's entrance.

Lucian and Seraphina were there to see him off.

"Remember," Lucian said, handing him a small, ornate box, "this contains a family heirloom. It might aid you in your quest."

Elias accepted the box with gratitude. "Thank you."

Seraphina embraced him tightly. "Stay safe, my son."

With a final nod, Elias stepped into the night, the path ahead uncertain but his resolve unwavering.

The Egyptian sun beat mercilessly down on the vast, golden expanse of the southern desert, a searing disk suspended in an endless sea of blue. The winds were dry and whispering, carrying with them the age-old secrets of forgotten civilizations. Sand danced in the air, whirling in slow, hypnotic spirals before settling again upon the ever-shifting dunes.

At the edge of what once may have been a temple complex, a lone figure stood. Clad in desert robes and a wide-brimmed head wrap, the man might have passed for a wandering local — except for the way his eyes swept the ruins with purpose, like a seeker hunting prey long thought extinct. This was no mere traveler, but Elias Blackthorn, heir to one of the oldest magical bloodlines in existence.

But to the world around him, he was Zand — a nondescript local traveler with dark eyes and weathered skin. The disguise, courtesy of a precisely brewed Polyjuice Potion, was flawless. Elias had taken no chances. The treasure he sought was too great, and any whisper of his true identity could summon unwanted attention, both magical and otherwise.

He had arrived in Egypt through unconventional means. His father, Lucian Blackthorn, had provided him with an unauthorized portkey With it, Elias had traveled from Britain in a blink, bypassing the Ministry's detection grids and apparitional trace wards.

His landing had been less than elegant. The portkey dropped him just outside an arid village near the Nubian border. The locals, suspicious of outsiders, had watched him carefully as he moved through the dusty streets, speaking in halting Arabic. To further his ruse, he had even fumbled purposefully at a market stall, muttering about a lost inheritance in the desert. He asked about cursed lands — ancient ruins where the sun didn't shine and the earth was cracked and barren.

Most scoffed at him. One hawker told him to stop chasing ghost stories. Another warned that such places were death traps, cursed by angry gods. But it was an old man sitting beside a crumbling well who finally gave him what he needed. The elder's face was lined like the desert itself, his eyes milk-white with blindness.

"There is a place," the man had rasped, "where the land itself recoils. The sand is dead there, no scorpions, no lizards. Only stone bones remain — broken columns and blackened walls. They say the gods were angered and buried the city in one night."

Elias had listened carefully as the man drew a crude map in the dirt with a trembling finger, pointing to a jagged rock formation shaped like a jackal's jaw. The ruin lay just beyond it, buried in the dunes.

He left at sunrise the next morning, traveling by foot with a charmed flask of water, a compass enchanted to resist desert illusions, and the Book of Gods strapped to his chest in a magically concealed satchel.

Hours passed in silent, oppressive heat. The desert tested him. Thirst came and went. Once, a dust storm forced him to crouch low beneath a rock outcropping, shielded by a makeshift barrier spell. But finally, as the sun began to dip and the sky turned bronze, Elias crested a dune and saw it.

A ruined field stretched before him, so ancient it barely resembled anything human-made. Broken columns rose like teeth from the sand. Jagged flagstones peeked through the dirt, carved with faded symbols. There was no vegetation, no wildlife. The desert itself seemed to reject the place.

Elias paused, heart thudding with anticipation. He pulled out the Book of Gods and turned to the marked page. The final translation had taken weeks — months, even — but the reward was now within reach.

According to the text, the hidden entrance to the treasure chamber would only reveal itself if the seeker stood at the true center of the ruins and spoke a specific invocation in the tongue of the sun priests.

The words were etched in an ancient dialect that hadn't been heard in thousands of years. But Elias had learned to read them like a second language. He took a breath and stepped forward, placing his feet on the cracked flagstone where the coordinates converged.

He lifted his wand and pressed the tip to his chest. Focusing, he spoke the words aloud:

"S'nekht-ra em aten-kha."

Open the path to the sun's heart.

Nothing happened at first.

Then the earth groaned.

A circle of sand around Elias's feet began to glow faintly — first a dull gold, then brighter, brighter still, until it shimmered like molten metal. The lines of power twisted into a complex sigil, drawn from beneath the sand, connecting runes that pulsed like a heartbeat.

Before he could move, the circle cracked. A rush of hot wind burst upward from the ground, sucking him downward. The sand gave way completely, and Elias fell — not with pain or panic, but with a strange sense.

Darkness swallowed him.