Luxor, Upper Egypt
This morning, we left Cairo behind, bound for Luxor—first by air, then by car, tracing a path through a land that does not welcome outsiders lightly. You don’t visit Upper Egypt. You are admitted. And only barely.
The mood was taut. Security everywhere—our own people, yes, but also local forces, magical and mundane. I’ve grown accustomed to layers of surveillance and protection, but this… this was different. Felt less like safety, more like ritual. As though we were being allowed into something sacred and dangerous, and the guardians would not hesitate to revoke that permission if we misstepped.
The concert—the third in our little mythic trilogy—was held at Luxor’s great temple complex. What was once immense is now almost beyond comprehension. The plaza alone could swallow most arcologies whole. Statues of the gods ringed the space—some familiar (Osiris, Isis, Horus, Phta, Bastet, Sobek, Set), others lost to time, or perhaps newly Awakened, born of the 6th World’s return. Their gazes felt real, watchful. Halo joked about it before we started. She didn’t after.
Her performance mirrored Giza’s in form, but not in tone. This wasn’t Isis and Osiris. This was all of us—gods and mortals, metahumans and monsters, reborn in the echo of older worlds. A bridge between what was, what is, and what might yet be. The crowd—priests, dignitaries, and whatever dwelled in those stone eyes—was rapt. And when she finished, there was a stillness that tasted like approval.
That was when I met him.
Amun-Ta. The sorcerer of the 4th World. Theran-born, or something like it. A myth walking in flesh, older than any empire still remembered. He was… exactly what I expected, and nothing I expected. Power wrapped in poise. His presence made the air feel thicker, like the world paused slightly whenever he inhaled.
We talked—longer than I thought he’d allow. He’d heard of me. Of us. Curious about the concert, about Halo, about Phoenix Rising of all things. But most of all, he was curious about power. And cycles. And the truth that flickers between one age and the next.
I asked him what any sane person would ask: for a piece of it. His power. The magic of Upper Egypt, the hidden kingdom, the reborn pantheon.
He gave it to me.
Not all of it. Not even much, I’m sure. But more than anyone else has, and enough to burn through my soul like wildfire. It mingles now with the draconic spark I already claimed. They don’t mix cleanly. There’s conflict, turbulence. But I feel more now. Larger. Closer to the edge of something enormous.
I wonder what I’ve become. Or what I’m becoming.
But one thing is clear:
Cairo, Giza, Luxor.
Lower, Middle, Upper.
Old, New. Death, Rebirth.
United.
And I, Philip Harrowfield—Vice President of Operations, Halo Tour Manager, reluctant mystic—stand at the center of it all.
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