The ink had barely dried when the messenger burst through the doors of the apothecary, breathless and wild-eyed. "Master Everly," he gasped, sweat rolling down his brow, "the map—you must come at once!" Thomas Everly, esteemed cartographer and reluctant conspirator, set down his quill. He had spent the better part of the evening poring over ancient star charts, tracing paths unseen by the common eye. His fingers, stained with sepia ink, trembled slightly as he folded away the delicate parchment before him. London in the year 1798 was no place for lost secrets to resurface. "Which map?" Everly asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer. "The one from Cairo. The one marked in blood." The apothecary’s walls seemed to close in. Everly had left Egypt with more than just sand in his boots and stories in his head. He had taken something he never should have—a fragment of knowledge long buried beneath forgotten temples and whispered only in the dark halls of Ottoman courts. A map. Not just to any place, but to something that had been feared, hidden, and—until now—presumed lost. Everly stood. He pulled on his greatcoat, fastening the silver button at his collar. Outside, the city was suffocating in winter’s grip, lamplight flickering against cobblestone streets. He followed the messenger into the night, boots clicking against frost-laced stone. "What happened?" he asked. "The archive was ransacked," the messenger whispered urgently. "And the map... It’s gone." Everly exhaled slowly. He had known this day would come, but he had hoped—prayed—it never would. Now, the race had begun.