Sand.
Sand in his shoes. Sand in his socks. Sand in his ears. Milo was starting to suspect that sand was a shape-shifting life form whose main hobby was getting everywhere.
The sun above was a molten coin, and Milo could feel it trying to melt his brain through his hoodie. He yanked the hood down, instantly regretted it when the sun stabbed his scalp, and pulled it back up.
Meanwhile, Whiskers was walking like she'd just been crowned Queen of the Desert. No squinting, no stumbling, no sweating—just a slow, perfect stroll. Her paws barely sank into the dunes, and she seemed to sparkle in the light, the gold in her eyes catching every sunbeam.
"Yeah, sure," Milo muttered. "I'm over here turning into a raisin, but you look like you're auditioning for Ancient Cats of Egypt: The Musical."
A shadow fell across them. Milo squinted upward and blinked—no cloud, no tree. People.
A small group was making its way toward them: men and women in white linen robes, gold collars at their necks, and headcloths that rippled in the breeze. Their bare feet seemed completely unfazed by the hot sand.
The tallest woman in the group stopped a few feet away, her eyes fixed on Whiskers. "Messenger," she said in a deep, careful voice.
Milo looked over his shoulder. No one else was there. "Uh… you mean me?"
The woman's gaze didn't even flicker in his direction. She knelt on one knee and bowed her head toward Whiskers. "Messenger of Bastet, we welcome you."
Whiskers tilted her head, considering the title. She gave one approving blink.
And that was it. The entire group dropped to their knees in unison, sand puffing up around them. Milo's mouth went dry.
"Wait. You think she's—" He made vague jazz hands toward Whiskers. "—a holy cat?"
"Yes," the woman said simply, still bowing. "The goddess Bastet has sent her to us."
Whiskers, for her part, was now sitting perfectly upright, tail wrapped neatly around her front paws. Her glowing collar caught the sunlight, and Milo swore it shimmered just a little brighter.
The woman rose and gestured toward the horizon. "The Pharaoh will wish to greet her. Please, follow."
Milo stumbled after them, trying to keep his sneakers from filling with sand (and failing). "So, this Pharaoh… he's in charge, right?"
The woman gave him a puzzled look. "The Pharaoh is ruler of the Two Lands, keeper of the gods' favor, and guardian of the Nile."
"Right, so… in charge. Got it."
They walked for what felt like forever but was probably fifteen minutes—time was hard to track when you were melting. The sand slowly gave way to a wide, flat road made of sunbaked mud bricks. Along its edges, low buildings clustered together like huddled animals. Bright fabrics hung in doorways, and the smell of baking bread drifted from somewhere nearby.
Children peeked out from behind woven curtains to stare at Whiskers. Some giggled, some whispered, and one very bold little boy ran up to offer her a dried fish.
Whiskers accepted the gift with the gravitas of a queen receiving a crown, then trotted on. Milo caught up, shaking his head. "One fish and you're already bribed? No loyalty at all."
The woman leading them spoke without looking back. "The Messenger accepts what is given in devotion. It is an honor to offer her such things."
Milo muttered under his breath, "Yeah, well, she accepts what's given in tuna cans, too."
As they approached the heart of the city, the road widened into a bustling square. Stalls shaded by woven mats offered baskets of dates, jars of honey, bright beads, and more dried fish. The crowd seemed to part naturally as Whiskers walked through, every head bowing slightly as she passed.
Milo felt a dozen pairs of eyes scanning him, and for the first time since landing here, he realized: everyone thought he belonged to Whiskers, not the other way around.
Which, he admitted to himself, might actually be true.
At the far end of the square rose the palace—tall white walls painted with blue lotuses and golden falcons. Its gates were flanked by guards holding long spears, their bronze helmets gleaming in the sunlight.
The woman raised a hand. "Make way for the Messenger of Bastet."
The guards stepped aside instantly.
Milo and Whiskers stepped into the shade of the palace gates, and the sudden cool air was like stepping into a glass of ice water. Milo sighed in relief.
Whiskers, however, looked even more at home than before, as if she'd just walked into her own personal kingdom.
A bell rang somewhere deep inside the palace. Footsteps echoed. And a voice—young, clear, and carrying a strange authority—called from within:
"Bring the Messenger to me."
Milo glanced at Whiskers. Her golden eyes gleamed, and her collar gave the faintest tick.
Somehow, he knew—they were just getting started.