The sands of Old Egypt were nothing like the Pixel Park deserts. The air here was heavy — thick with memory, myth, and something older than belief. Tyrancilcus Rex walked beneath the ruins of a shattered temple, the moon painting his jacket in silver. His scarf snapped behind him like a banner carried into war.

He wasn’t here for archaeology.

He was here because Gideon asked him a favor.

“Someone needs watching,” the genie had said. “Someone who doesn’t take reminders well.”

That someone stood atop the crumbled altar now — tall, elegant, draped in linen that shimmered like moonlit water.

Bastet.

The Egyptian cat goddess incarnate.

Her eyes glowed molten gold. Her presence radiated the quiet authority of a ruler who needed nothing more than a single look to command loyalty.

“Approach,” she murmured.

Her voice was soft, but it struck the air like a bell — vibrating through Rexy’s bones in a way that made the instinctive part of him want to kneel.

He didn’t.

He stepped forward until her gaze fell upon him like a weight.

“You are the dinosaur,” she said, as if the word were an insult. “The one Gideon speaks of. The one who damaged the vortex of old magic.”

Rexy crossed his arms. “Gideon didn’t mention judgment was part of the invitation.”

From the shadows behind her stepped a small figure in a tattered cloak — a mouse with sharp eyes and sharper posture. Mousirius.

“Majesty,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “he means no disrespect. Though if he does, I’d enjoy watching the consequences play out.”

Rexy raised a brow. “Friendly advisor you’ve got.”

Mousirius bowed shallowly. “Advisor, philosopher, and the only one in this temple with a functioning sense of democracy.”

Bastet’s gaze sharpened. “Your tongue is sharper than your worth, Mousirius.”

“And yet,” he replied, “you keep me around.”

Bastet flicked her fingers dismissively.

Rexy watched their exchange carefully. Mousirius’s posture was sardonic, mocking — but beneath that, something burned. A restless fire. Ambition. Rebellion. The kind of ideology that didn’t stay buried long.

But that wasn’t Rexy’s mission.

“Gideon said you needed something,” Rexy said.

Bastet glided down from the altar, every movement impossibly graceful. “Something has awakened beneath my temple. Something stolen from me long ago. A relic of shadow. It feeds on defiance, twisting loyalty into hunger.”

“Sounds charming,” Rexy said.

Her eyes narrowed. “This relic is from my throne. When I ruled.”

Mousirius muttered, “A monarchy no one voted for.”

Rexy smirked. Bastet didn’t.

“The relic,” she continued, “has grown restless, stirred by the instability between realms. You sealed a tear, Tyrancilcus Rex. But healing one wound opens another.”

“And you want my help?”

Bastet approached until they were inches apart. Her aura pressed against his like a velvet wall carved from authority and expectation. “I want your strength. And your resistance to influence.”

Rexy leaned in. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Mousirius said, stepping forward, “she can’t bend your will like she bends everyone else’s.”

Bastet’s gaze turned cold. “You are testing my patience.”

“And I’m testing gravity,” Mousirius said, hopping onto Rexy’s shoulder. “If she vaporizes me, you’re falling with me.”

Rexy said, “I like him.”

“Do not,” Bastet warned, “encourage him.”

The relic chamber lay deep beneath the temple, carved from stone that pulsed faintly with ancient enchantments. The moment Rexy stepped inside, the temperature dropped. Shadows crawled along the walls like living ink.

In the center hovered a sphere of darkness, swirling inwards — a vortex of pure, oppressive energy. Something hissed within it. Something hungry.

Bastet raised her hand and the shadows recoiled. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “My throne. My authority. My punishment.”

The relic surged, tendrils of black magic lashing toward her.

Rexy grabbed her arm and pulled her back just as the floor cracked. “Hey! Don’t die before we figure out who’s in charge.”

Her eyes widened — surprise, then irritation, then something softer, almost respect.

Mousirius leapt from Rexy’s shoulder and landed near the sphere. “The relic reacts to authority. If she asserts dominance, it becomes stronger. If he challenges it…”

“It weakens,” Rexy finished.

He stepped forward.

The shadows snarled at him.

He snarled louder.

The room trembled as Rexy’s roar shattered the swirling surface of the relic. Cracks spread through the darkness as if fear itself were fracturing.

Bastet’s eyes widened. “You… broke its will.”

“Pretty good at breaking things,” Rexy said.

The relic imploded, vanishing in a burst of cold wind.

Silence filled the chamber.

Bastet looked at Rexy with something like gratitude, though she masked it quickly. “Your defiance is… useful.”

Mousirius smirked. “He means she owes you.”

Rexy turned to leave. “She can keep her thanks. I’m not here for thrones.”

Bastet’s voice followed him.
“You will return, Rexy. Our paths are braided now.”

Mousirius trotted beside him. “Translation: she likes you.”

Rexy smirked. “Most people do.”

“Not people,” Mousirius corrected. “Queens.”

Rexy flicked his scarf over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I noticed.”