Chapter 133: The Lost Era

“Asher, you stay here. Watch Shay and Sandro. We’ll check inside.”

Ares didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. Authority rolled off him like cold steel, final and absolute.

Asher’s jaw tightened. A protest rose to his lips — then died when he glanced at Shay, who was clinging to Sandro’s arm, pale and shaken. With a frustrated exhale, he nodded once. Shay was scared of the dark.

Scarlet didn’t volunteer either. The ruins loomed like the open mouth of something ancient and hungry, their jagged silhouette cutting into the sky. A damp, mineral smell seeped from the entrance, carrying the stale breath of centuries. She wrapped her arms around herself.

“Do you think it could collapse?” she asked, her voice smaller than usual.

Logan stepped forward, eyes sweeping the fractured stonework, the load-bearing columns, the cracked lintel above the entry. He tilted his head slightly, calculating angles and stress lines the way other people read street signs.

“The structure looks stable enough,” he said at last.

“Stable enough,” another voice echoed.

One of the archaeologists — a thin man with dust-coated glasses and the posture of someone who lived in libraries — adjusted his helmet. “I double-majored in archaeology and engineering. If it were going to fail immediately, we’d already see progressive shear or displacement.”

Not exactly reassuring.

Liam exchanged a glance with Logan, a silent military communication, swift and wordless. Then they moved.

“Let’s go,” Liam murmured.

They took the lead automatically, instincts sharpened by years of combat training. The rest followed, shoes crunching on grit and stones.

Cellphones flicked on, beams of cold white light slicing through the suffocating darkness. Several archaeologists activated the mounted lamps on their helmets, creating overlapping cones of illumination that pushed the shadows back — but never far enough.

The darkness beyond seemed thick, almost liquid, swallowing the light instead of reflecting it.

Only ten had been cleared to enter.

Among them were Ares, Lara, and the Norse brothers.

And five members of the archaeological team, including their chief, Philip Hardy.

The stairwell spiraled downward, narrow and claustrophobic, carved directly into stone. Moisture slicked the steps, forcing them to descend carefully. Every footfall echoed upward in hollow, lonely reverberations, as if the ruin were listening.

The air grew colder and heavier.

By the time they reached the bottom — roughly two storeys below the surface — even breathing felt different, tinged with the metallic taste of old earth and sealed time.

Then their feet hit level ground.

Ahead stood another door. Not made of wood nor metal, but a door carved out from stone.

Seamless, monolithic, fitted so precisely into the surrounding wall that it looked grown rather than built.

Strange symbols covered its surface — spirals, angular figures, markings that seemed to shift under the moving light, as if refusing to be fully understood.

Philip Hardy stepped forward, his hands trembling — not from fear, but from awe.

“These… these aren’t decorative,” he murmured, brushing dust away with reverent fingers. “They’re functional. A locking script… a mechanism key.”

He studied the symbols with feverish intensity, lips moving as he translated silently.

Then he pressed one. Nothing happened.

A breathless pause.

Then—

Click.

The sound was like a groan. Mechanical. Unmistakably deliberate.

Stone ground against stone with a deep, ancient groan, the vibration traveling through the floor into their bones. Dust cascaded from the ceiling as the massive slab slid aside, revealing a darkness even deeper than the stairwell’s — thick, absolute, untouched by light for centuries… or longer.

Their beams cut into it. And stopped.

A younger archaeologist pulled out an orb the size of a basketball and mounted it on a tripod. Then he flicked a switch, and white light exploded, revealing a vast chamber beyond.

Rows upon rows of dark coffins stretched into the chamber, arranged with eerie precision like silent soldiers standing at attention.

All coffins were carved with elaborate reliefs — warriors, beasts, crowns, symbols of power and conquest.

The air inside was perfectly still. Dead still.

As if nothing living had disturbed it since the day the last coffin was sealed.

“Oh my God,” Philip Hardy breathed, his voice cracking under the weight of what he was seeing.

He staggered forward a step, eyes wide, shining like a man witnessing a miracle.

“We… we didn’t just find ruins.”

His voice dropped to a whisper that seemed almost sacrilegious in that tomb-like silence.

“We stumbled into history.”

Philip Hardy forgot how to breathe.

Not metaphorically but literally.

His chest rose… then stalled, as if his body could not process the magnitude of what his eyes were telling him.

A royal burial layout.

Not a mass grave. Not a temple cache. Not looted remains scattered by time.

His pulse thundered in his ears as he stepped deeper into the chamber, boots echoing against the stone floor with humiliating loudness.

He felt like an intruder. A thief trespassing in a room that had once required entire armies to guard.

This isn’t just a tomb…

His gaze swept the nearest sarcophagus.

Then the next.

And the next.

At least a dozen.

All arranged in a crescent formation facing a raised central platform as if awaiting someone important and revered.

Royal necropolis, his mind supplied automatically. Or a dynastic burial chamber.

His hands trembled as he approached the coffin at the platform. It was carved from a single slab of black marble veined with something that shimmered faintly under the flashlight — not gold, not quartz… something stranger.

The exterior lid bore the figure of a man in full regalia. Not stylized. Not symbolic.

Under the rim, a name was carved.

Alaric Kromwel, Founding Emperor of Azurverda.

Hardy’s stomach twisted.

“The first emperor of Azurverda. I can’t believe it. I found it.” Philip Hardy did not know how to express himself. He clapped, jumped, and then finally, his gaze landed back on the coffin.

He traced the inscription with his hand in reverence.

“This… this is post-classical technique,” he whispered hoarsely, half to himself. “But the iconography predates any known empire in this region…”

The face in the portrait was serene, eyes open, hands crossed over the chest — but the weapon carved beneath those hands was unmistakable. A blade longer than any ceremonial sword, its design brutal and efficient.

A conqueror.

A war monarch.

Hardy’s academic brain began firing in frantic, disjointed bursts.

Where are the inscriptions? Where are the dynastic seals? Why isn’t this recorded anywhere?

He moved to the next coffin. He studied the portrait on the exterior lid.

A woman this time.

Her headdress rose in layered tiers like a crown fused with armor, flowing into sculpted braids that framed a face too sharp, too commanding to be ornamental. Across her chest lay a scepter — but the grip was shaped for combat, not ceremony.

Lara Norse Kromwel. First Empress of Azurverda.

Empress! Not a consort. Ruler in her own right.

A chill crept up his spine.

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