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Chapter 22 - A Day of Peace

The sunlight fell across the water of the oasis, sparkling like golden coins scattered by a divine hand. Cleopatra stood at the shore, slipping off her sandals and sinking her feet into the cool water. She laughed when small fish brushed against her toes, then turned to me as if she wanted me to laugh with her. I sat in the shade of a palm, hands folded on my knees, smiling quietly in a way I rarely allowed myself.

"I have never seen a place like this," she said. "In the palace everything is beautiful, but cold. Here… here it is alive. I think I could live here forever."

I handed her some bread and a few figs from my waterskin. She sat beside me, her feet still wet from the pool, and ate in silence until she looked up with a spark in her eyes. "Do you remember how I used to steal your dates? I was convinced you never saw me."

I smiled. "We all saw you. I only left them on top so you could think you had fooled me."

She laughed so hard her shoulders shook, and something stirred in my chest that I quickly forced down.

---

Time passed, the sun climbing higher. Cleopatra lay in the shade of a palm, her arms folded beneath her head. She was quiet for a long time before whispering, "Mehet, you never told me where you truly came from. Only fragments—about temples, your works. But not what came before."

I fixed my eyes on the surface of the water. "I had a family," I began softly. "A father who worked stone, a mother who tended herbs. We were not rich, but we were together. I remember the smell of the bread she baked, and how my father taught me to draw shapes in the sand. Shapes that later came back to me when I built temples."

"So your gifts are also their legacy," she said quietly.

"Perhaps," I answered, and bitterness caught in my throat.

She sat upright, her face serious. "And do you miss them?"

For a while I said nothing. "I do. Even after all these years. Even knowing I will never see them again. But what they gave me… has remained."

---

By afternoon we sat at the water's edge. She dipped her legs into the pool while I repaired a cracked strap on my waterskin. Suddenly she spoke. "Do you remember when I was little and afraid of the dark?"

"I remember," I said with a nod. "I played the flute so you could sleep. Your mother used to laugh that only I could quiet her child."

She laughed, then her gaze turned serious. "And your animals? You always spoke of them with love. Who tends them now?"

"I left them with a boy from the harbor," I said. "He is young but has a good heart. I told him to care for them as if they were his own. Feeding them, healing them… it gave me peace I found nowhere else."

"You know they say I am stubborn," she smiled. "But when you speak of your animals, I see the same stubbornness in you. Only you hide it."

---

When the sun began to lower, she lay back on the sand and closed her eyes. I sat beside her, watching her face grow calmer than I had seen in years. A lock of hair fell across her brow, and I reached out, gently brushing it aside. Her eyes opened and met mine. She didn't pull away, didn't frown—only smiled faintly, as though she accepted the gesture.

"With you, I feel safe," she whispered.

I turned my gaze to the oasis, for something rose in my chest that I dared not name.

---

As night fell, I lit a small fire. She sat next to me, leaning against my shoulder. "When we return," she said softly, "I will not be the same. I will never forget what I have seen here."

"And that is good," I replied. "A ruler must see what they would rather not. That is what makes them stronger."

She thought for a while and nodded. Then she yawned, closed her eyes, and let sleep take her.

I sat beside her, listening to the palms, telling myself that this day—ordinary, peaceful—was a gift. A fleeting gift, but one I would remember for the rest of my life.

But dawn came, as it always does. The fire had burned low, the palms whispered in the morning breeze, and the oasis already felt like a memory slipping from my hands. I rose and looked at her. She stirred, her hair tangled around her face, her eyes still heavy with sleep.

"Princess," I said softly, yet firmly, "it is time to go."

For a moment she only looked at me, as though weighing whether to argue. But then she rose, brushed the sand from her hands, and nodded. No protest, no complaint.

She slipped on her sandals, cast one last look at the shimmering water behind us, and then turned back to me. Her face was calm, as if she had grown older in a single night.

"Show me the way, Mehet," she said.

And so we left the oasis together, stepping once more into the endless desert, where the gods still waited with their trials.

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