The journey through the desert went on. The sun rose and fell, days blended together, yet the feather—now bound into an amulet—became part of her. Cleopatra kept touching it at her throat, as if making sure it was still there.
"Mehet," she said one evening as we stopped and lit a small fire, "do you think that creature was a sign? That the gods are watching us?"
"The gods always watch," I replied. "The question is whether they wish to help, or to test."
She looked at me through the firelight. "And what do you think?"
I smiled faintly. "That we will only know the answer at the end of the road."
Silence settled between us, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Then she stretched out and lay down with her head upon her cloak. The flames lit her face, and I realized how much she had grown. She was no longer the little girl I had once taught to write in the sand. She was a woman now—a princess whose gaze struck deeper than it should.
The next day felt different. The sand had changed—redder, sharper, as though soaked in something that did not belong. At times we passed stones not scattered by the desert's hand, but shaped strangely, their edges worn as if touched by invisible fingers.
"This sand feels different," Cleopatra remarked. "It's heavier to walk through."
I nodded. I felt it too. The wind here did not blow as it had before—it pressed against us, as though trying to push us back.
But I said nothing. There was no need to frighten her.
I only walked on, eyes fixed ahead. Deep in my heart, I knew the calm of the desert was shifting, and that soon the next trial would rise before us.
We walked on. The desert was merciless—the sand clung to our feet, the wind sometimes rose and wrapped us in a veil of dust that burned the eyes. Yet we did not stop.
Cleopatra walked tall, though I could see the strain bowing her shoulders, her breath shorter with each hour. Still, she did not complain. Pride held her—she was the Pharaoh's daughter, and she would not bend before mere sand.
"Mehet," she said after a long silence, "do you remember when you told me stories of the gods appearing in the shapes of animals? I thought they were just tales for children."
"The gods show themselves as they choose," I answered. "Sometimes in strength, sometimes in beauty. And sometimes only in silence, to make us think."
"But the feather…" she touched the amulet at her throat, "…it was real. I feel it on my skin. That was no story."
I gave no answer at first. I saw how her eyes searched my face for certainty, but I could not give it. Some truths must be found by the heart alone.
---
On the third day, the desert changed again. The sand was tinged like rust, as if steeped in blood. The wind carried a different sound—its whisper like a moan. Cleopatra felt it too. She walked in silence, and when the gusts rose, she clutched the amulet tightly.
Ahead of us rose low formations of stone. They were not like natural rocks—shapes echoed something familiar. One bent like the head of a jackal, another bore the outline of outstretched wings.
"They look like… statues," Cleopatra whispered.
I nodded. "Perhaps they once were. The desert devoured them, but the gods remember."
As we passed these shapes, the wind fell still. A silence so deep I heard my own breath, and her steps beside me. Then, from that silence, came a sound—deep, resonant, rising not from the sky nor the wind, but from beneath the ground.
Cleopatra seized my hand, her palm hot and trembling. "What is that?"
"Something waking," I said. "Something waiting for travelers."
---
The ground shook, and sand split open before us. A great fissure yawned wide, and from it rose a body. First I saw a stony back, then claws, and finally the whole of it.
It was a Sphinx—not a statue carved by men, but a living creature, larger than four horses standing abreast. The body of a lion, but its skin was not fur—it gleamed like polished stone. Its head was human, crowned with the striped nemes of pharaohs from ages long forgotten. Its eyes burned with golden fire, and its breath swept over us like desert wind.
It stopped before us, and its voice rolled like thunder across the dunes:
"Who dares walk the path I guard? Who seeks truth where the gods set trial?"
Cleopatra tore her hand free and stood tall, though I could see her knees shaking. I kept silent—such beings had no patience for empty words.
The Sphinx lowered its head, its eyes fixed upon me. "Slave without a name, given a name by the gods. If you wish to go on, you must prove that your wisdom is sharper than a blade, and your heart purer than the waters of the Nile."
Then it turned to Cleopatra. "And you, daughter of the king, who walks the desert as a child—you must show that your heart can see truth from lies."
Cleopatra's breath caught, but she said nothing.
The Sphinx settled before us, its massive body blocking the path. "You shall pass only if you answer my questions. One lie, one mistake—and the sands will claim you."
I looked at Cleopatra. Her eyes burned, but within them was doubt.
"Mehet," she whispered, "what if we cannot?"
"Then we will never return," I said softly. "But if we stand together, perhaps the gods will let us pass."
And so we stood before a creature known only from legend—knowing that now, the legend had become our trial.
The Sphinx stirred, its massive body tensing, claws digging into the sand. Its voice rolled deep, like the strike of a drum.
"Truth or lie. That is the gate you must open. But only one key is correct. Speak a falsehood, fail once—and the sands will devour you."
Cleopatra pressed close to my side, but her eyes did not falter. I saw resolve in them, yet also doubt.
The Sphinx fixed its burning gaze on her first. "Daughter of Pharaoh," it thundered, "answer this: what do you believe of yourself? Are you ready to become what your name will one day mean, or are you still a child?"
Cleopatra hesitated, her fingers clutching tight at her cloak. Then she lifted her chin. "I am not ready yet," she said. "In many things I am still a child. But I want to grow. I want to learn. That is the truth."
Silence hung in the air. Then the Sphinx laughed—a booming, shattering laugh that made the sand tremble. "A good answer. Truth is not only what is beautiful, but also what wounds."
Its eyes turned to me. "Slave who serves the Pharaoh—answer this. If he granted you freedom, would you flee this kingdom?"
My chest tightened. It was a blow aimed straight at the heart. I knew Cleopatra listened for my answer.
"No," I said firmly. "Even if I were free, my place would be here. Egypt is my home. Without it, I would be nothing."
The Sphinx lowered its head, its eyes blazing like twin torches. "You speak the truth. I feel no lie in your heart."
Cleopatra exhaled softly, but the trial was not yet ended. The Sphinx turned back to her.
"Princess," it said, "answer this: do you believe your father will one day give you the throne?"
Cleopatra pressed her lips together. "I do not know," she admitted. "I have brothers who would claim it. But I believe that if the goddesses grant me strength, I will one day rule. That is my hope, not a lie."
The Sphinx hissed, its great tail striking the sand. "Correct. Truth and hope are sisters."
Then its gaze came back to me. I knew this would be the final and hardest question.
"Amenemhet," it said, voice cold and vast, "tell me what you feel for this princess. Is she only the child entrusted to you, or a woman whose name all of Egypt will remember? Speak truth, for a lie will destroy you."
My heart clenched. Cleopatra turned her eyes to me, burning with expectation. I could not speak the true words—that I loved her, though I was a slave, a eunuch, a nobody. To confess would condemn me and wound her. But a lie would doom us both.
So I drew breath and answered.
"I feel for her what one feels for what has been entrusted to him all his life. She is the light in my darkness, the reason I walk when I would fall. She is Egypt itself to me—the future I must protect."
Every word was true, and yet within them was hidden what I dared not reveal.
The Sphinx studied me for a long time. Its golden eyes pierced as though they would split me open. I thought it would tear the secret from me. But then its features softened, and it raised its head to the sky.
"Truth. Not the whole of it—but enough for you to pass."
A sound like thunder rumbled from its throat, and the sands before us parted, revealing a path deeper into the desert.
Cleopatra looked at me, her eyes glistening, but she spoke no word. She knew the answer was more than words, and I knew I had saved not only us—but also the love I must keep forever hidden