Sweat dripped from the tip of her nose, splashing onto the stained canvas of the boxing ring. Breathing hard, Anna kept her hands raised, her knuckles stinging inside the worn leather gloves. Her opponent, a two-hundred-pound heavyweight named Alexei, grunted as he circled her, his massive frame casting a long shadow under the flickering fluorescent lights of the Brooklyn gym. He thought she was just a remarkably fast woman with a freakish streak of luck. Alexei lunged, throwing a heavy jab that whistled past her left ear. Anna didn't flinch. She slipped the punch easily, her reflexes operating on a frequency honed over five thousand years. To her, his movements were agonizingly slow, like a fly trapped in amber. "Watch your guard, Anna!" Marcus yelled from outside the ropes, his voice hoarse from a long day of shouting at amateur fighters. He smacked a rolled-up magazine against the apron to get her attention. Marcus didn't know she had once commanded armies. He didn't know the scars on her back weren't from a rough childhood in Eastern Europe, but from the agonizing bite of ancient chains that had bound her in a sarcophagus for millennia. Dropping her weight, she slid inside Alexei’s reach and delivered a sharp, snapping hook to his ribs. A sickening crack echoed through the humid gym. Alexei gasped, his eyes bulging as he stumbled backward, clutching his side, his face turning a shade of pale green. "Whoa, whoa! Easy!" Marcus jumped onto the apron, waving his hands frantically to stop the spar. "I said light contact, Anna! Not murder!" Regret flashed through her, hot and sudden. She instantly lowered her gloves, taking a deep, steadying breath to force her racing heart to slow down. Her chest ached with the effort of containing her strength. Sometimes she forgot how fragile modern mortals were. Their bones were like dry twigs compared to the reinforced skeletons of the pharaoh's elite guard she used to train with in the sun-drenched courtyards of Thebes. "I am sorry, Alexei," Anna said, her voice carrying a thick, hard-to-place accent that she carefully guarded. "I did not mean to strike so hard. My hand slipped." Alexei waved a weak hand, groaning as he slid down the turnbuckle to sit on the canvas. "It's fine. Just... felt like getting hit by a runaway train." Marcus eyed her suspiciously, his gaze lingering on the unnatural stillness of her posture. "Go clean up, kid. You're done for the night. And take it easy on the bag next time." Nodding silently, she unvelcroed her gloves with her teeth and slipped them off. Her hands were steady, but inside, her soul felt like a tempest. The memories of her past life always clawed harder at her mind when she let her physical body push its limits. --- Rain lashed against the dirty glass of the gym's back exit. Anna stepped into the cool night air, pulling her dark cotton hoodie over her head. The heavy canvas duffel bag slung across her shoulder weighed her down, but she welcomed the physical burden. It kept her grounded in the modern world. Inside that bag, wrapped in layers of black silk, lay her tactical katana. It was a modern weapon, forged from high-carbon steel, but she had etched the ancient protective runes of Ma'at along the spine of the blade herself using a diamond-tipped engraving tool. Water puddled in the cracks of the asphalt, reflecting the garish neon signs of Queens. Walking through New York at night was one of the few times she felt a semblance of peace. The city was loud, chaotic, and utterly indifferent to who she had been. Nobody cared if she was a cursed princess or a god's chosen vessel; they only cared if she was blocking the sidewalk. To the commuters rushing past her under their umbrellas, she was just another gym rat heading home after a late workout. Suddenly, the hair on the back of her neck stood up. A wave of bone-chilling cold swept through the humid air, smelling faintly of stagnant river water, dead reeds, and old ozone. It was a smell she knew better than her own name. Anna stopped under the flickering light of a broken streetlamp. Her hand drifted naturally toward the strap of her duffel bag, her fingers tightening around the canvas. Ma'at's light, dormant but ever-present in her chest, pulsed with a sudden, warning heat. It felt like a hot coal pressed against her ribs, a stark contrast to the damp cold of the New York night. Danger was close. It was tracking her. Turning on her heel, she slipped into a narrow alleyway between a crumbling brick warehouse and a closed bodega. The shadows here were thick, swallowing the ambient glow of the city lights. Footsteps echoed behind her. They were too quiet, too deliberate to belong to a regular street mugger. They had the rhythmic, sweeping cadence of trained hunters. "Show yourself," Anna commanded, her voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly tone that had once made high priests tremble in fear. Silently, three figures emerged from the gloom at the mouth of the alley. They wore heavy, dark raincoats, their hoods pulled low to obscure their faces. But Anna didn't need to see their eyes to know what they were. The stench of rot and ancient dust rolling off them was unmistakable. "The princess of the Nile," one of them rasped, his voice sounding like dry papyrus rubbing together. "How far you have fallen, hiding among the insects of this new world." Anna let her duffel bag slide off her shoulder to the wet pavement. With a smooth, practiced motion, she unzipped the top and gripped the hilt of her katana. "I am no princess," she whispered, drawing the weapon. Steel hissed in the quiet alley, the runes along the blade faintly glowing with a pale, warm golden light that pushed back the darkness. "You are a traitor to your blood," the second figure spat, stepping forward. As he entered the dim light of the alley, his face became visible. It was a horrifying mockery of humanity—the flesh gray and sunken, the eyes entirely black, devoid of pupils or sclera. They were hollow shells possessed by something ancient and hungry. Servants of Set. They were the remnants of the cult that had once whispered poison in her ear, urging her to slaughter her own family for the promise of ultimate power. Seeing them here, in the heart of modern Manhattan, made her stomach turn. "You stole the light," the third one hissed, drawing a pair of curved, wicked daggers from beneath his coat. "But you cannot keep it. The god of chaos demands his tribute." Without another word, the first cultist lunged. He moved with unnatural, jerky speed, covering the distance between them in a heartbeat, his clawed hands reaching for her throat. Anna met him head-on. She spun to the side, letting his momentum carry him past her. In the same motion, she brought the heavy pommel of her sword down hard onto the back of his neck. A satisfying crunch echoed through the alley. He collapsed into the wet garbage, but the other two were already upon her. Blades clashed in the dark. Anna parried a vicious strike from the dagger-wielding cultist, the impact sending orange sparks flying into the rainy air. The force of the blow would have shattered a normal human's wrists, but she held her ground, her boots skidding slightly on the wet asphalt. Her MMA training merged seamlessly with her ancient swordsmanship. She kicked the knees of the second attacker, forcing him to buckle, then spun and delivered a devastating elbow to his jaw. He staggered, black, tar-like blood leaking from his lips. "Is this all your master has to offer?" Anna taunted, her eyes flashing with a dangerous, golden fire. The thrill of battle was a dangerous drug, one she had to fight to control. For a moment, the ancient, wrathful Ahmanet threatened to surface, urging her to rip these creatures apart and paint the alley walls with their blood. But she fought the urge down. Ma'at was about balance, order, and justice. She would not lose her humanity to the darkness she had spent years trying to escape. The cultist with the daggers snarled, leaping at her in a desperate, frenzied attack, his blades moving in a blur of deadly steel. Anna kept her composure, parrying his wild slashes with minimal, efficient movements. She stepped back, drawing him in, waiting for the perfect opening. Right, left, parry, bind. With a sharp twist of her wrist, she disarmed him, his daggers clattering against the brick wall. Before he could recover, she drove the flat of her foot into his chest, launching him backward into a stack of wooden pallets. The pallets splintered with a loud crash, burying him in wooden debris. Breathing heavily, Anna stood over the three fallen attackers. The golden light of her sword slowly faded back into the steel, leaving only the dull sheen of wet metal. Rain washed the black blood from her blade, swirling into the storm drains below. "Speak," Anna demanded, walking over to the cultist she had kicked into the pallets. She placed the tip of her katana against his throat, pressing just enough to draw a bead of black fluid. He lay panting, his limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Yet, he smiled, showing teeth that had been filed into sharp points. "You think you are safe in this city of glass and iron," the cultist wheezed, coughing up a thick, black fluid that hissed as it touched the rainwater. "Who sent you?" Anna pressed the tip of her katana deeper. "How did you find me?" The cultist laughed, a wet, rattling sound that made her skin crawl. "The seal is broken, Ahmanet," he whispered, using her true name. "The master has chosen a new vessel. The dagger will be reunited with its true purpose." Anna’s heart froze. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to remain stoic. "The dagger is locked away. It is safe." With his remaining strength, the cultist lunged forward, grabbing her bare wrist. His touch was icy cold, sending a shockwave of dark energy through her arm that made the Light of Ma'at inside her chest scream in protest. "He is already here," the cultist gasped, his black eyes widening in a final, fanatical surge of life. "And he is hungry for your light." With a final, violent convulsion, the cultist’s body began to rapidly decay. His flesh dissolved into a gray, greasy ash before her eyes, washed away by the heavy rain. Within seconds, all three attackers had dissolved into nothingness, leaving only wet, empty raincoats in the rain-slicked alley. Anna stood alone in the dark, her chest heaving, the sound of her own heartbeat loud in her ears. Her hand trembled as she looked down at her bare wrist. A dark, burning brand had appeared on her skin where the cultist had touched her—a perfect, smoking replica of the Eye of Set, glowing with a faint, malevolent red light. And from the far end of the alley, a low, guttural growl echoed in the shadows, accompanied by the sound of heavy, clicking claws.

Chapter 3: The Cold Prickle of the Past