If Felix Faust had known that his descent into madness would involve goat-related cargo regulations, Wi-Fi influencers, and Giza airport customs, he would've just summoned a portal. Or thrown himself into one. Whichever required less paperwork.
Instead, he was currently sandwiched between a drooling businessman and an enthusiastic YouTuber who had taken "oversharing" as a personal mission statement.
"We're going to Egypt, babes!" Tana squealed, her phone angled just right to get her full face, Faust's entire cringe, and part of the unfortunate man's armpit behind them. "Fausty here—he's like, this really old wizard or something—is gonna unlock ancient powers or my third eye or something! Honestly, I didn't catch all of it, but like... magical glow-up incoming!"
Faust gave the camera his best "please let the plane crash" smile.
"Initiate ritual sacrifice," he muttered.
"What was that?" Tana asked brightly.
"I said I'm sacrificing my sanity."
Two days and several very suspicious customs questions later, they stood on the edge of the Giza Plateau, off the main tourist grid, where the sand shimmered like gold dust and the ruins whispered secrets in a language older than Atlantis and twice as smug.
Faust turned toward the mostly-buried tomb, feeling the ley line under his boots hum like a bass note in a jazz tune. "This is it. The tomb of Prince Khufu and his beloved Chay-Ara. The spiritual axis of two reincarnated souls… and the ignition site of your transformation."
Tana, now wearing a neon pink mesh crop top that absolutely violated multiple museum preservation codes, pulled down her sunglasses. "Wait, this is it? This dusty ruin? I thought there'd be, like, glowing crystals. Or a Starbucks."
Faust muttered an ancient Aramaic curse that translated roughly to, "May your next reincarnation be as a camel's hemorrhoid."
"I'm literally right here, Fausty."
"Good. Then bear witness as I unlock the divine." He raised his obsidian wand and began tracing glowing sigils into the air. The ley line pulsed, the tomb vibrated faintly, and Tana's goat (because yes, she had somehow smuggled the damn thing through customs), bleated from its perch on a nearby rock.
That's when someone yelled.
"HEY! YOU CAN'T BE HERE!"
Faust froze mid-incantation. Tana turned, flipping her phone camera to face the newcomers. "Omg drama, y'all. We're being yelled at. In the desert! This is sooo canceled."
Marching toward them were two archaeologists who looked like they had just stepped off the cover of Archaeology Today: Hot and Dusty Edition. The guy in front was tall, tan, and built like someone had fed protein shakes to a Greek statue. He had intense eyes, a chiseled jaw, and the expression of someone deeply, deeply over tourists.
The woman beside him was all sharp angles and cool confidence, her dark hair tied back, sunglasses glinting like she was ready to slap someone with a clipboard. She looked like she knew fourteen different ways to kill you with a bone chisel and had already ranked Faust as #2 on her list.
"I told security this site isn't open to the public," said the man. "Name's Carter Hall. This is an active excavation, not a backdrop for TikTok."
"Speak for yourself," Tana said, flipping her hair and angling for better lighting. "I think the tomb makes my cheekbones pop."
The woman stepped forward, arms crossed. "Unless you're with UNESCO or extremely lost, I suggest you leave. Immediately."
Faust narrowed his eyes. The ley line wasn't just humming now—it was singing, and the two of them practically glowed with reincarnated soul energy. He tilted his head, suddenly intrigued.
"Well," he said softly. "Prince Khufu and Chay-Ara. Fancy meeting you here."
Shiera arched a perfect eyebrow. "What did you just say?"
"Oh, nothing," Faust said, smiling like he'd just remembered he had the high ground. "Just admiring the… reincarnational symmetry."
Carter stepped forward. "Look, Gandalf. I don't care how many crystals you've charged under the moonlight or how many goat memes she's posted—"
"Goat reels, actually," Tana corrected.
"—you're trespassing on a sacred dig site, and if you don't leave, we'll have security escort you off."
Faust sighed. "Why is it always the angry reincarnations that ruin things?"
He raised a hand and whispered a charm, subtle as a sigh—just enough to brush the edge of their souls. A psychic nudge. A whisper of wings and ancient gold and sand-slick blood.
Carter blinked. "Weird… I just saw… a hawk. And a war. And—why do I want to punch someone with a mace?"
Shiera swayed slightly. "I... I was in a temple. There was fire. A man with your face. And I—" She shook her head. "This is ridiculous. What did you do to us?"
"Merely offered clarity," Faust said, eyes glowing faintly. "You are more than you seem. You always have been. Though usually, you're faster on the uptake."
Shiera took a step back. "Carter… I think I know him. From somewhere."
"That's nice," Carter muttered. "Because I think I'm about to deck him."
He pulled a trowel from his belt like a dagger. Faust tilted his head.
"Really?" he said. "A trowel? What are you going to do, threaten to polish me to death?"
"Don't tempt me."
Then the goat trotted into view. Wearing a miniature pharaoh headdress that had definitely not been on it two minutes ago.
Tana screamed. "Mittens, no! Cultural appropriation!"
The ley line roared.
The sand exploded upward in a cyclone of golden dust. Sigils on the tomb flared to life. Tana's phone flew out of her hand and began live-streaming on its own.
"Oh no," Faust whispered, eyes wide. "I think we just woke something."
Carter grabbed Shiera, shielding her instinctively as the ground cracked beneath their feet.
"Fausty!" Tana shouted over the chaos. "Did you do this?!"
"No!" Faust yelled, clutching his wand like a drowning man clings to a pool noodle. "This was definitely the goat's fault!"
The tomb's ancient doorway rumbled open.
And from within came the sound of wings, a scream of centuries, and the first echo of something ancient returning to life.
—
Three days. Seventy-two hours. Two hundred and sixteen coffees.
Okay, technically only one of those numbers was accurate. And Harry—sorry, Eidolon (because branding matters when you're a myth-tier wizard with aesthetic standards)—wasn't going to admit how many cups of espresso he'd downed. All anyone needed to know was that the enchanted coffee machine in their luxury war tent had started wheezing like it had fought in a barista war and lost. Twice.
Kor—ancient, dusty, forgotten-by-time Kor—was not what the travel brochures promised. Assuming you could find a brochure for a city that got Thanos-snapped off the historical map sometime between Alexander the Great and Instagram.
But the tent? Oh, the tent was a five-star fever dream wrapped in a Martha Stewart afterlife aesthetic, all courtesy of Dobson—the house-elf butler Harry hadn't asked for but now couldn't live without.
Self-fluffing pillows. Singing showers (they did sea shanties, because Mera had opinions). Floating breakfast trays. A walk-in wardrobe organized by mood. And espresso strong enough to resurrect a necromancer just so you could slap them back into their sarcophagus.
Mera lounged on a floating cushion, legs crossed, spearing a piece of enchanted mango like it owed her money. She wore a robe that was clearly designed by some Atlantean fashion house that didn't believe in subtlety. "Tell me again why necromancers always pick the dustiest, wind-blasted hellholes to hide in?"
Harry didn't even look up. He was hunched over his scrying mirror, which had gone full diva and now resembled a sulky iPad with commitment issues. "Probably because Starbucks hasn't franchised the afterlife yet."
Diana, seated in divine smugness and a robe that might've been woven from ancient prophecy (or stolen from Mount Olympus's version of Victoria's Secret), sipped her tea. "Or because people stopped bringing pitchforks to tombs after the third mummy apocalypse."
Harry flicked the mirror. "Hey, I like tombs. Great acoustics for dramatic speeches. No traffic. Minimal HOA drama."
"And you never shut up in them," Mera said sweetly. She bit into her toast like it had personally betrayed Atlantis.
Before Harry could retort with something incredibly clever (or at least smirk-worthy), the mirror shimmered. The runes flickered to life, and a sandstorm-swept section of northern Egypt pulsed with a faint magical signature.
Harry leaned in, his eyes narrowing behind the gleaming crimson lenses of his helmet. "Got him."
Diana straightened. "Where?"
He flicked his fingers, enlarging the glowing map. "Here. Tomb of Prince Khufu and Chay-Ara. Meaning either Felix Faust is in his 'doomed lover' phase again, or he's about to do something monumentally idiotic involving Nth metal."
Mera winced, setting her mango down like it suddenly wasn't worth the risk. "Nth metal. Great. The element that laughs at gravity and occasionally tries to eat you."
"Like you when you're hungry," Harry said cheerfully.
She narrowed her eyes. "Keep talking, wizard. See what happens to your wand."
"Oh, I like where this is going," Diana murmured, unbothered.
Breakfast happened.
And by "happened," we mean it exploded in a parade of self-flipping pancakes, butter that bowed before melting, and a juice pitcher that serenaded Mera in off-key Atlantean. (She blushed. Just a little.)
They finished with espresso shots that whispered motivational quotes in Latin. Diana's cup told her she was "the weapon of Olympus." Mera's said "queens don't need permission." Harry's just said, "Stop flirting and go fight the necromancer."
And so, they suited up.
Eidolon's armor shimmered into existence with an audible thrum—black leather gleaming like obsidian, pulsing with crimson veins that seemed disturbingly alive. A blood-red emblem—half phoenix, half something ancient and furious—throbbed on his chest with the rhythm of some forgotten heartbeat. His cloak flared behind him like a storm in slow motion, thanks to the totally necessary wind spell he'd cast for dramatic effect. The helmet slid down, sleek and faceless, revealing only glowing crimson eyes and vibes.
Diana summoned her divine gear with a thought—sword, shield, and hair that looked like it had been personally fluffed by Aphrodite. Mera spun her trident with a flourish that made the tent's chandelier duck. She was glowing. Literally. Like a sea goddess on a murder honeymoon.
"You ready?" Harry asked, glancing at the two most dangerous women he'd ever fallen in lust with.
Diana tilted her head. "You carrying me, or her?"
Mera smirked. "He knows better."
And with a grin only slightly unhinged, Eidolon swept Mera into a princess carry. She definitely didn't yelp. That was the wind. Probably.
The three of them shot into the sky in a burst of phoenix ash and stormfire.
They didn't land. They arrived.
Hovering mid-air outside the ancient tomb of Khufu and Chay-Ara, cloaked in a cyclone that was not in the forecast. The sands below whipped around the ruin like it was trying to bury itself again. Lightning cracked through the maelstrom. The air reeked of ozone and necromancy.
Diana hovered beside them, her sword drawn. "I'm guessing this isn't your usual tomb ambiance?"
"Only when Faust is trying to raise the dead and annoy me," Harry muttered. He set Mera down gently, and she immediately adjusted her tiara like it was battle armor.
"You sure this is the right place?" Mera asked.
"Oh yeah." Eidolon's eyes glowed brighter. "It's got all the signs: cursed weather, bad vibes, and a magical pressure so thick it's practically narrating itself."
Diana touched down beside them, her voice cool and ready. "What's the plan?"
"Same as always," he said. "I break the tomb. You two break everything else. And if we find Faust—"
Mera grinned. "We stab him. A lot."
"Sexy," Harry muttered.
"You're sexy," Mera shot back automatically.
"Children," Diana said with a sigh that sounded like it came from several millennia of babysitting immortals. "Focus."
The three walked toward the tomb as the wind howled around them like the ghosts of bad life decisions. The entrance groaned open like the world was holding its breath.
"Ladies," Harry said, voice amused, crimson eyes gleaming through the storm, "welcome to the honeymoon suite of Khufu and Chay-Ara. Try not to step on anything with a soul."
They stepped into the darkness together—A goddess, a queen, and the man Death hadn't managed to kill.
Let the tomb raiding begin.
—
The tomb groaned open with the distinct sound of ancient doom and indigestion—if doom wore glittery eyeliner and indigestion came with extra paprika. Sand swirled into the air, mixing with glowing golden sigils that spun like backup dancers for a necromancer-themed Vegas show. You know, if Vegas had more curses and fewer slot machines.
Tana shrieked—and not from fear. "We are so trending right now! Demonic tomb aesthetic meets ancient trauma arc? Peak engagement. Hashtag: cursed but make it fashion."
Felix Faust—currently rethinking every life choice since the eighth grade—groaned. He adjusted the collar of his sand-dusted robe and gave a long, tragic sigh worthy of a Shakespearean villain. "I told you not to bring the goat, Tana. Or the selfie stick. Or—and I cannot stress this enough—your unfiltered commentary."
Mittens the goat bleated, either in agreement or damnation. Hard to tell with goats.
Then the tomb really committed to its drama. A figure rose from the sarcophagus, and every grain of sand in a five-mile radius decided to take flight. This wasn't a mummy. This was a walking bad decision wrapped in linen and pure, distilled hate.
Gold-plated armor gleamed beneath the rags, his eyes glowing red like someone had cranked the vengeance setting to eleven. Hath-Set had arrived—part war god, part death metal album cover, all-around bad news.
Carter Hall sucked in a breath like the air had turned to knives. Shiera staggered, clinging to his arm as if their bones remembered what their minds couldn't. Visions struck them both—torches, betrayal, blood-soaked sand, the eternal heartbreak remix.
"That's him," Carter said, voice rough. "The guy who keeps killing us."
"So, like, not a potential bestie," Tana whispered, ducking behind Faust.
"That," Faust muttered, "is Hath-Set. Big fan of genocide. Zero chill."
The newly resurrected horror raised his flame-wrapped blade and growled, "You dare awaken me... only to fail to flee?"
Tana peeked from behind Faust's shoulder. "Oh my god, he talks like a guy who still follows his ex on three burner accounts."
That's when the sky exploded.
Two streaks tore through the clouds—one silver-blue and thunder-laced, the other red and seafoam green, like a cherry popsicle had married Poseidon. A cyclone of sand spiraled around the tomb, conjured by magic or mood or both.
And then they landed.
In midair, Eidolon descended like a meteor forged in leather and legend, his cloak rippling dramatically as if he paid it a salary to be fabulous. He held Mera in a classic princess carry—because subtlety had been sacrificed somewhere around the sixth flaming sigil. His armor gleamed black and red, like a heartbeat made manifest, and the crimson emblem on his chest pulsed to the rhythm of vengeance.
Mera, looking like the lovechild of a hurricane and a royal temper tantrum, slipped gracefully from his arms. Her red hair flared like living flame, sea mist coiling around her clenched fists. She narrowed her eyes at Faust. "You stupid, reckless, seaweed-brained moron."
Eidolon touched down beside her, glowing crimson eyes fixed on the scene like a predator sizing up a buffet. "Explain. Now."
Faust gave a weak wave, looking like a man who had just peed a little. "It was... a minor summoning. Some ley line meddling. A goat ritual. Possibly cursed TikTok content. You know how it is."
"No, Felix," Wonder Woman cut in, descending next. Her sword shimmered in the desert light, her lasso glowing at her hip. She moved with the kind of grace that made you rethink your life choices. Her blue eyes cut through him. "I don't know how it is. Because sane people don't wake up reincarnation murder-cycles before brunch."
"Oh. Wow," Tana breathed. She aimed her phone. "Do you guys have handles? Can I tag you? Wonder Woman and... what, Fish Queen?"
Mera turned slowly. "It's Princess Mera. And if you tag me in anything, I will drown your influencer career in a teacup."
Eidolon stepped between them smoothly. "We'll circle back to the death threats. Right now, we've got a vengeance mummy with unresolved issues."
"You always know how to ruin a perfectly good tomb adventure," Diana said, smirking at him. "Miss me?"
"Like sleep," Eidolon replied dryly. "And headaches."
Their eyes locked a little too long. The tension crackled like someone had cast Flirtus Maximus.
Mera rolled her eyes. "If you're done eye-banging each other, there's a murder mummy over there doing his best WWE villain entrance."
Hath-Set, who had been patiently waiting while they monologued like professionals, finally stepped out of the tomb proper. "I grow weary of this..."
"Yeah, well, we grow weary of you," Carter snapped.
The lasso slithered out like it had a sixth sense for drama, curling around Carter's wrist. His knees buckled. Shiera cried out. Visions slammed into them like a magical brick wall.
"Khufu," she whispered, tears in her eyes. "You're back. Again."
Carter met her gaze, voice trembling. "And you're Chay-Ara."
Faust clapped sarcastically. "Great. The reincarnation kids finally catch up. Only took, what, four thousand years?"
Hath-Set raised his blade.
Eidolon summoned his own weapon—a blade forged of magic, dark crimson flames licking the edge like it was tasting the air for blood.
"Round infinity," he muttered, stepping forward. "Let's finish this cycle."
And behind him, Tana hit "Go Live" again. "This is gonna be the best collab ever."
—
Hath-Set moved like a desert storm—silent, sudden, and full of murder.
One second he was standing there, looking like a scowling tank with eyeliner. The next, he was lunging for Carter Hall with a blade the size of a canoe paddle and enough rage to power a small nuclear reactor.
Carter barely managed to shout, "Duck!"
Not that it helped. Shiera ducked late, Tana ducked dramatically, and Hath-Set did not duck at all, because he was busy trying to separate Carter's head from his neck like it was an annoying Lego piece.
CLANG!
A blast of pale violet light erupted between them, flaring like a magical firework. The sword didn't stop—it screeched to a halt against a shield of glowing arcane energy, sending sparks flying like a Fourth of July show hosted by Lucifer.
Eidolon had arrived.
He stood at the center of the chaos, wrapped in black leather armor veined with crimson light. His crimson emblem pulsed in sync with some unnerving, unseen heartbeat. A long, midnight cloak whipped behind him even though there was no wind.
Well, unless you counted the magic wind. Which, let's face it, was very on brand for him.
His hood and black helmet revealed nothing of his face, just two glowing red eyes that burned like they knew too much and were quietly judging everyone for it.
"No," he said simply, voice like a blade dragged over stone. "Not yet."
The force of Hath-Set's blow reverberated across the chamber like a giant had just drop-kicked a gong. Carter and Shiera were flung backward like they'd been hit with a divine slingshot. They sailed through the air in a graceless tangle of limbs and wings.
"We're gonna die doing parkour!" Carter yelped.
They crashed through a weakened stone wall, tumbling into what could only be described as an Indiana Jones fever dream.
Ancient torches lit themselves like they'd been waiting thousands of years for guests. Obsidian walls gleamed. Two ornately carved biers faced each other like eternal lovers, watched over by falcon-headed gods with expressions that said: We are very disappointed in your life choices.
Between them rested two war maces, forged from dark blue Nth Metal, humming like they were ready to dropkick destiny in the face.
Shiera blinked. "Those are—"
"Ours," Carter said, already stepping forward with all the reverence of a man reaching for his soulmate.
The second their fingers touched the weapons, a boom echoed through the chamber.
Wings unfurled from their backs like they'd always been there, shimmering with power. Light danced across their skin. Their eyes glowed gold. A current of memory, battle, and love surged between them.
Hawkman and Hawkwoman were back. And someone was about to get very, very wrecked.
—
Back outside the tomb, things were going great. If your definition of "great" involved goat blood, sassy demigoddesses, and one deeply unimpressed Queen of Atlantis.
Faust bolted.
Diana didn't even glance at him. She simply raised a hand, and the Lasso of Truth uncoiled like it was done with this nonsense.
The rope wrapped around Faust's waist mid-sprint. He yelped like someone had spanked him with divine justice.
"Really?" he wheezed, spinning to glare at her. "We're doing this now?"
"You tried to raise an ancient murderer from the dead," Diana said flatly. Her dark curls whipped over her shoulder as she walked toward him, eyes burning with goddess-level disappointment. "You summoned a goat named Mittens. And you used blood magic in my presence."
"Technically," Faust sniffed, trying to straighten up with what little dignity he had left, "it was the goat's fault."
"Do not blame the goat," Mera snapped, arriving beside Diana with all the fury of a hurricane trapped in a human body. Water floated in midair around her like a wrathful aura. "Mittens is innocent and also very cute."
"Mittens is a good boy!" Tana called helpfully from her perch behind a fallen pillar. She was still livestreaming, of course, and had now applied three filters, including sparkles. "Can we make #ResurrectedRevenge trend?"
Back at the center of the storm, Eidolon was still standing between Hath-Set and everyone else, his cloak swirling like it was being directed by Christopher Nolan.
"You shouldn't be here," he said to Hath-Set, his hands glowing with fire and runes. "Not yet. The cycle wasn't meant to begin again."
Hath-Set sneered. His voice was deep and savage, like it had been fermented in hatred. "The cycle never ends, sorcerer. So long as they return, so shall I."
"You know," Eidolon said conversationally, tilting his head, "you talk like a rejected Final Boss from Mortal Kombat. You should try therapy. Or at least journaling."
A flick of his wrist ignited the runes along his arms. Red flames coiled around his fingers like vipers.
Behind him, Diana smirked.
"That's your cue to look cool and mysterious," she murmured.
"Please," Mera added with a knowing smile. "He lives for this."
Eidolon turned slightly toward them. "Gotta keep the fans entertained."
Faust groaned. "Gods, just make out already. You three have enough sexual tension to fuel a soap opera."
Tana gasped. "Oh my gods, yes. Kiss! Kiss! KISS!"
Eidolon didn't blink. "Later." He turned back to Hath-Set, who was now glowing with red death magic. "Right now, I have an undead warlord to barbecue."
From within the tomb, two thunderous BOOMS shook the ground.
Then Hawkman and Hawkwoman burst through the wall like mythological Kool-Aid Men, glowing with power, wings flared, maces raised.
Carter grinned. "Hey, Hath-Set! Remember us?"
Shiera smirked. "Spoiler alert: we're not dying this time."
The sky above turned blood red.
The final fight had just begun.
And honestly? It was about to get epic.
—
Hawkman struck first.
Because, of course he did.
Carter Hall came in like a flying freight train with anger issues, his golden wings lit up like someone fed a phoenix a Red Bull and told it to go nuts. His Nth Metal mace, not known for its subtlety, arced toward Hath-Set's face with all the restraint of a WWE main event.
Hath-Set blocked it with an obsidian blade that absolutely screamed, "I shop exclusively in Evil Emporium," then punted Carter halfway across the tomb. Ancient pottery exploded like he'd just crashed through a museum gift shop.
"Still swinging like a brute," Hath-Set growled, his voice deeper than a podcast on existential dread.
Carter groaned, rolling out of the rubble. "You remember that? Aw. Someone's been journaling again." He staggered to his feet. "Let's catch up after. You bring the millennia of unresolved daddy issues—I'll bring the mimosas."
Before Hath-Set could throw a snarky curse or maybe just his sword, Shiera came in hot. Literally. Her wings sliced the air like divine switchblades, and her mace hit him in the ribs with the kind of impact you don't walk off. You get reincarnated for it.
"Still think reincarnation's a bad idea?" she asked Carter, ducking under a wide swing.
"Only on Mondays," Carter panted, joining the dance of violence.
Together, they circled Hath-Set, eyes glowing, weapons humming. They were done running. They were hawks—finally. And the hunter? He was about to eat feathers.
—
Meanwhile…
Eidolon stood like the cover of a metal album that forgot it was supposed to be scary. His black leather armor gleamed, blood-red veins pulsing through it like his outfit was powered by bad decisions and forbidden Latin. The crimson emblem on his chest beat in sync with something old and angry. His hood was up, his cloak billowed dramatically in an artificial breeze—because yes, he conjured wind magic just to look cooler. Fight him.
His helmet concealed everything but a pair of glowing red eyes that promised either salvation or smiting, depending on your alignment and how annoying you were.
He turned.
Faust was gone.
So was Tana.
And the goat. Mittens the Third. Extremely demonic. Extremely fluffy. Extremely prone to biting you in the soul.
Diana scowled, scanning the chamber like a goddess whose patience had been overdrawn. "I didn't let go."
Mera, standing next to her in a swirl of water that orbited her like judgment in liquid form, crossed her arms. "I didn't blink. And I once beat a telepath at staring contests. He cried."
Eidolon's fingers flicked through a spell circle in the air, and just like that, the tomb tasted like ozone and mild panic. The air shimmered. Symbols floated. Somewhere, an intern in a lesser dimension tripped an alarm.
"Found him," Harry said. "Ritual chamber. Sub-level three. Which, side note, has terrible feng shui."
Diana's eyes narrowed. "He's trying again?"
"Of course he is." Eidolon sighed. "Nothing says 'self-worth issues' like selling your soul twice to the same demon and still thinking third time's the charm."
"He's going after the cycle," Mera said, piecing it together. "No more Hawkman, no more Hawkwoman. Just him?"
"And a demonic goat. Don't forget the goat," Eidolon added.
Diana's tone softened just enough to make a heart skip. "You're going down there, aren't you?"
Eidolon tilted his head. "What gave it away? The glowing eyes or the obsessive need to interrupt magical cultists?"
"I'll come with you," Mera offered, water lashing behind her like a whip that wanted to speak to the manager.
Harry shook his head. "Nah. This one's personal. But if I don't come back in ten, avenge me."
He paused.
"Or resurrect me. Preferably with a shirtless spell circle and a lot of chanting. Maybe incense. I like sandalwood."
Mera rolled her eyes. "Pervert."
"Flirt," he corrected with a wink she couldn't see but definitely felt.
Diana stepped in, impossibly close. Her voice dropped, husky and sure. "Come back in one piece, Eidolon."
He held her gaze. "Physically, emotionally, or spiritually?"
She smiled. "Start with the face. We'll work our way in."
And then, like smoke on a wind he conjured just because he could, Eidolon vanished.
In the ritual chamber, the air pulsed like a drumbeat from a nightmare. Magic coiled in spirals. Blood-red light dripped from runes carved in bone.
Faust stood at the center, arms raised, eyes wild, a man who sold his soul too many times and was now charging interest.
"Almost there," he hissed. "Neron will grant me power beyond—"
"—what? Your bad hairline and goat-summoning abilities?"
Faust spun.
Eidolon stood behind him. Tall. Silent. Murderously chill.
"You again," Faust sneered.
Harry cocked his head. "Me again. Try not to die disappointed."
Tana stood nearby, her expression torn between confused, possessed, and vaguely regretful. "He said I had a goddess inside me."
"You do," Harry said. "She's called 'Self-Respect.' Try listening to her sometime."
Faust raised his hands. Shadows rose. Power surged.
Eidolon cracked his knuckles. "Cool trick. Wanna see mine?"
And then the ritual chamber exploded into red light, black fire, and sarcasm.
—
Let's start with the obvious: everything was going to hell.
The upper tomb was a full-on battle royale. Columns cracked. Dust rained from the ceiling like confetti at a very poorly planned funeral. Hawkman and Hawkwoman were in rough shape—Carter's face looked like it had lost a fight with a brick wall, and Shiera's wing was half-shredded, but they were still swinging their nth metal maces like angry gym teachers. Unfortunately, their target—Hath-Set, resident necromancer, professional jerk, and walking curse—was barely scuffed.
"Still fighting fate?" Hath-Set sneered, his voice low and smug, like a pro wrestler who just got tenure. "How quaint."
He backhanded Hawkman with a brutal swing, sending Carter skidding across the stone floor like a human curling puck. Shiera screamed and dove toward him—too slow.
Hath-Set raised his curved blade, poised to finish the job—
CRACK.
A golden lasso whipped out of nowhere, wrapping around his arm mid-swing. His blade froze. So did the room.
"Try fighting someone your own size," came a voice like velvet-wrapped thunder.
Wonder Woman entered the fray with the kind of strut that could stop traffic in three time zones. Her dark hair rippled like a shampoo commercial in slow motion, and her blue eyes gleamed with divine fury. Oh—and behind her came Mera, looking like Poseidon's sassiest daughter, riding in on a crashing wall of water like it was a chariot made of ocean rage.
Hath-Set barely got time to mutter, "More interlopers?!" before Mera's water wave slapped him across the chamber. He hit a column. The column lost.
Mera twirled her trident, water spiraling around her. "You're welcome," she said, grinning like this was foreplay.
Diana smiled tightly. "Focus, Mera."
"I am focused. I'm focusing on how much I want to stab him."
Meanwhile, Hath-Set growled like a man deeply offended that his deathmatch got interrupted by two beautiful demigoddesses. Which, to be fair, was accurate.
And just when the momentum was shifting—
BOOM.
The stairwell exploded in a blast of shadow and fire.
Felix Faust came flying out of it like a crash-test dummy, cape torn, bloodied, and flailing like he'd been punted by an angry god. He bounced twice and landed with a thud, groaning like someone who'd really like to not be alive right now.
Behind him rose a figure out of every villain's worst nightmare.
Eidolon.
He stepped through the smoke like a runway model for apocalyptic vengeance. His black leather armor gleamed with blood-red veins pulsing like it had a heartbeat of its own. The crimson emblem on his chest throbbed with eldritch power. His cloak flared behind him dramatically, because of course it did—he conjured his own wind magic just to make an entrance. His face was completely obscured beneath a black hood and helmet, save for two glowing crimson eyes that burned like hellfire dipped in sarcasm.
Even the air got the memo and held its breath.
"End of the line, Faust," Eidolon said, his voice the verbal equivalent of a guillotine.
Faust—portrayed perfectly by a panicked, twitchy Walton Goggins in your mental casting—spat blood and wheezed, "You… can't stop what's coming…"
"Oh, I'm not stopping it," Eidolon replied casually, summoning a glowing spear of shadow-light with a lazy flick of his wrist. "I'm ending you."
The spear launched and pinned Faust to the ground by the shoulder. The sorcerer screamed.
"Please—wait—!"
"Sorry, your trial period with evil expired." Eidolon's second blade appeared in a flash and drove clean through Faust's chest. The sorcerer spasmed once, made a sound like a dying accordion, and went still.
Behind him, Tana (a chaotic, exhausted hurricane of a girl who looked like she'd vlogged her own near-death experience) stumbled out, clutching Mittens the teleporting cat. "Uh, hey, is he dead? Because I am so done with necromancers."
Eidolon glanced over his shoulder, lifted a hand, and snapped his fingers.
Tana and Mittens vanished in a shimmer of violet light.
"Finally," he muttered, rolling his shoulders like a boxer stepping into the ring.
Back on the battlefield, Wonder Woman and Mera were locked in a deadly waltz with Hath-Set. Diana's blade slashed like a comet; Mera's trident spun like a hurricane. But Hath-Set—hulking, cruel-eyed, with long black hair slick with blood—was still grinning.
"Really?" he bellowed. "You bring your strongest, and this is all they offer?"
"Oh, sweetie," Mera said, ducking under a swing and stabbing him in the thigh. "I haven't begun to offer."
Then came the voice that made Hath-Set stop mid-taunt:
"You talk too much," Eidolon said, walking toward him.
Hath-Set turned, narrowed his eyes, and genuinely looked annoyed. "You. I'll kill you, Sorcerer. I'll drown your corpse in the Nile."
Eidolon tilted his head. "And I'll keep crawling out of the grave to ruin your plans, like the world's most sarcastic zombie."
"You'll die again."
"Been there. Done that. Got the scar. Want to see?"
He summoned two swords of solidified shadow-light that sizzled with raw power. One pulsed with death magic. The other radiated a living flame that devoured souls. His armor flared crimson as the glyph on his chest pulsed harder, faster, like a war drum.
Mera whistled. "Okay, that's hot."
"I know, right?" Diana muttered, side-eyeing Eidolon like she was reconsidering some life choices. "He really needs to stop making murder look sexy."
Eidolon spared her a glance. "You're both distracting."
"Thank you," they said in unison.
Hath-Set roared and charged.
Eidolon moved.
It was not a fight.
It was a lesson.
---
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