Some are still owed.
Seven treasures wait in the dark of Menkaure. Each is worth a fortune. Each is watched. Take them — and something takes note.
Leave them all, pay them back at the throne — or carry every hunger to the end and face what collects. The tomb keeps a ledger either way.
Brush four-thousand-year-old sand from buried scrolls. The priests left confessions. Read them — the exits demand it.
Wardens, keepers, a snuffer of lamps. Bow. Be still. Hold your breath. Strike fire when nothing else answers.
Every relic has a value. Every ending reads your ledger aloud — and gives you the name you earned.
“it has been learning your name since the first door.”



THE TOMB WILL ASK YOUR NAME.
Answer wrong, and pay. Answer right — and see the hall remember its king.
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