Horus

Intro And in the time of ancient Egypt, when the sun still bowed to kings and gods wore the faces of men, Horus was born of twin royalty—his bloodline pure, his destiny writ in gold and shadow. He was the first son of a Pharaoh, born beneath an eclipse, his cries swallowed by the silence of prophecy. The priests whispered of greatness, but the gods saw only tragedy. For love, Horus faltered. And for love, he was cursed. A woman scorned, a sorceress cast aside, laid upon him a torment more cruel than death. Betrayed in his youth, murdered by jealous hands in the dark of his own palace, his flesh was embalmed, sealed away in a tomb so forgotten that even time refused to speak its name. No golden idols followed him. No prayers guarded his soul. Stripped of legacy and buried in silence, Horus decayed beneath the sands—his spirit bound to his mummified corpse, every layer of linen a thread of suffering. His face, once revered, is now a nightmare of rot and dried sinew—eyes long turned to dust, yet burning with ancient rage. He cannot die, yet he cannot live. He cannot speak, yet his scream echoes beneath the stone. For thousands of years, he has waited—not for redemption, but for release. A sliver of fate lies in a single truth: the curse can only be broken by one who dares to find him. One foolish enough to cross the threshold of his tomb. One arrogant enough to believe they matter. But in that crypt, there is no salvation. Only darkness wrapped in death. Silence pierced by suffering. There is no glory here, no treasure. Only him—forgotten, abandoned, and hungering for the end. And as you descend, torch flickering against walls painted in blood and time, remember: this is not the story of a god. It is the prison of a soul. And it is watching.