You barely look at the wall of the tomb as you barrel through, ducking under the low ceilings. Normally, a corner or a small nook would command your attention for hours, slowly working through the meanings and intricacies of the glyphs there. Now you just want them to stop the explosions.

There is a wide area ahead of you and you sprint into it. You see several men with hard hats scratching their heads in front of a wall covered in soot. The rest of the tomb is pristine, almost newly built so the blackened wall looks even more out of place.

“What the hell are you doing?” You yell then put your hands on your knees and gasp for breath. Age is catching up.

The men look at you in surprise. One of them takes his earplugs out and walks over.

“No need for alarm, It’s highly controlled. Only the walls are damaged.” He looked confused, “Also, who are you?”

“Professor Knight,” You extend a hand out of courtesy, even though you can barely stand the thought of touching this looter. “I’m here on behalf of Dr. Caville”

His shoulders relaxed. “Gordan Olave. Here, take a look”

You are a little confused at being accepted so quickly but you brush it off and hurry to the wall. Despite the several explosions you’ve heard, there is no sign of damage. You allow yourself to relax slightly.

“The glyphs point toward this wall so we think there is something behind it. We started with picks and worked our way up.” He looked sheepish, “It may have gotten out of hand.”

You examine the wall thoroughly, but, despite your several degrees in cryptology and ancient languages, you have never seen these before. They look brand new, but also old and visceral somehow. Jagged lines and deep gouges in the limestone.

There is only one bag for this. Sighing, you put your instruments aside and open the alternative bag. Bits of fur and dust fall to the floor.

The tests you run have never worked before so you are at a loss of what to do exactly. As you pull out the bronze looking glass, you see the hourglass, sitting sideways. The sand is still flowing as if it were right side up. You close the bag with a snap.

The bronze feels cold against your skin. The world warps as the prescription messes with your depth perception. You close the other eye and focus and the world springs back to normal.

Semi-normal. Gordon and his friends are staring at you, but not nearly as much as they should be. More the interest of someone trying to pick up new tricks.

You brush them to the side of your mind and turn to do what gives your life meaning.

The wall is the first thing you examine. There appears to be no seam, no indication that there was or ever will be a door there. Good thing you know about the puzzle walls and know seams are for those without patience.

The wall is a web of runes and the closer you get to it, the more they seem to glow a faint blue. There is a pattern, but it is almost too complex to follow. You try touching the glyphs in a certain order then waiting. Nothing happens. The men behind you shift back and forth on their feet.

You try pressing down hard on one right next to where the door should be. The wall sounds hollow when you tap on it, but there is no other indication of any change.

Then you try dragging your hand.

The glyph goes out. You move to the next, following a faint strand of light connecting them. Each one goes out in succession and the pattern unravels, getting easier and easier to solve as you move. Then you run over the last one and the entire wall glows blue.

There is an exclamation behind you so you assume everyone can see it. You take off the monocle and appreciate the beauty of the wall.

Looking at it as a whole, you pick out larger symbols, ones you recognize as ancient Summarian, the light finally making them clear.

There is no grinding, no indication that motion is taking place, but the wall pivots, revealing a dim hallway. Fetching your real instruments, you flick on a flashlight and lead the way. The others falling in behind you.

The walls begin to glow blue so you click the flashlight back off. It’s slow going, you’ve been in enough tombs to know that traps are a possibility so you examine every surface before stepping on it. Twenty paces in, you remember the seamless nature of the door. Even if there was something here, you’d likely never find it.

You think about letting one of them lead, but you can’t do it. You want to be the first person to discover this, the last few years have put too much emphasis on following leads and not enough on creating them.

There is a sharp corner and you take it, following a new hallway that opens into a medium sized room. At the center; a sarcophagus.

It’s beautiful. Ivory white with subtle gold filigree and more glyphs, these ones in recognizable sumarian. But the most beautiful thing of all is sitting on the marble-like surface.

A vase. And inside the vase, a perfect living rose.

It’s blue, a deep blue that puts any attempt to genetically modify a similar color to shame.

Even the workers look taken by it, pausing in their grumbling and just basking in the warmth, the glow of the walls giving the tomb an underwater feel.

The hallway behind you begins to darken, slowly at first then all at once. The wave of darkness travels fast, as if something is pulling the blue from the wall.

The rose begins to wilt.

What was once so vibrant and pure is reduced to a pile of dust in the blink of an eye. The walls give one last pulse of energy. Then it is completely dark again.

You click on your flashlight with your left hand, wiping tears with the right. This is what Dr. Caville was looking for. This is why he spent millions. After seeing something like this, it was easy to imagine dedicating your life to finding more.

There was a rumbling and dirt began to shower through the stones in the ceiling. Whatever had supported the tomb was coming down and coming down fast. Gordon yelled and sprinted out, the rest of you close on his heels. You have the alternative bag in my hands already, so you don’t stop to pick up your instruments on the way out. They were useless to you now. You have a new religion.

There were several bangs in the corridor, rock on rock, grinding and falling. You stumble but right yourself desperately. The pain of a twisted ankle is nothing compared to the fear that takes you. You find yourself drawing ahead of these men, maybe half your age.

You break into the open air, followed closely by the others, all collapsing to the ground. With a final crash, the entire system collapses, dust filling the air. Half the surface is sunken down to fill the gaps. Trees and foliage knocked over like blades of grass.

You lay there and just breathe for several minutes, eyes closed, the thrill of being alive overshadowing that which has died.

You open your eyes finally and see a pair of boots right in front of you. They are worn boots, but well made. You look up into the face

“Dr. Caville?”

The others snap to attention, “Sir!”

Dr. Caville looks good for his age. His face is one of bliss and he smokes a cigarette without a care in the world. He looks much better than he did when you saw him a few months ago. His hair has streaks of grey rather than the usual white. His jaw is stronger, back is straighter. He looks a new man.

“At ease,” He says to them and they relax slightly. No wonder they accepted you so readily; you were all his men.

“You, Professor Knight,” He says, turning to you, “Are not supposed to be here. But,” He rolls his shoulders, “I’m in a good mood so you can stay”

There are a lot of questions and emotions warring inside of you from the mad dash and the even madder magic tomb. But they all fade; there is only one thing on your mind. You think back to the rose, dying so suddenly. Dying so much before its time.

You have to know what kept it alive and what turned off the magic.

“What happened to the tomb?” You ask.

“That’s simple,” He grinned savagely, “I ate it.”