Lara looked at the horizon. “There’s a temple in the Himalayas. Older than the Minoans. A lock made of frozen starlight. This thing needs to be buried where no one will ever find it.”

Gunfire erupted. Kessler took a round to the shoulder, went down. Lara moved like smoke, pistols spitting fire. Two mercenaries fell. She vaulted the obsidian pillar, kicked Dorian’s rifle aside, and drove an elbow into his throat. Soren grabbed the box.

Lara caught the box inches above the lava. The heat was apocalyptic. The ichor touched her gloves—and vanished. The box sealed itself, smooth and silent. Lara felt a cold whisper in her mind: You held death. You gave it back.

The moment Soren’s fingers touched it, the floor groaned. The serpent’s path of pressure plates reversed. Magma hissed through new vents. Lara grabbed Kessler and hauled him toward a side tunnel. Soren ran the opposite way, box clutched to her chest.

Lara circled it. Her reflection in the obsidian pillar looked older, thinner. “Sacrifice of what?”

“The Box of Chaos,” Kessler whispered. “According to the scroll, it cannot be opened by force. Only by sacrifice.”