Morning came sharp and relentless. The first rays of the sun broke the darkness and painted the sand gold, as if the desert itself were on fire. Cleopatra woke with a strange lightness—she stretched her arms, looked out over the endless horizon, and said:
"I have never seen a sunrise like this. Out here everything feels… alive. As if the very air is breathing with me."
I already held the ankh in my hand, hidden beneath my cloak. Its metal was cold and heavy, a reminder of the night, of the dream, of the mission. Ptah guides us. I cannot fail.
"Where now?" she asked as she tied her dust-streaked hair into a knot and bound it with a strip of cloth.
"Northeast," I answered. "To where the desert touches the arms of the Nile."
Her eyes lit up. "Then onward—to adventure."
We walked. The sun climbed higher, the sand clung to our feet, sweat traced lines down our backs. For a long time we said nothing. The desert demanded silence—each step was labor.
But Cleopatra could never keep quiet for long. "Mehet," she said at last, "do you remember the story you once told me? About the hero who was lost in the desert and found his way by the stars?"
I nodded. "It was a tale of a man who trusted the heavens more than his own eyes."
"And what did it bring him?" she asked.
"Life," I said. "But also loneliness. Because no one else could see what he saw."
She thought on that, then smiled. "Perhaps we are the same. You see more than I do. And I must trust you, though my eyes see only sand."
I shrugged. "Perhaps that is what trust truly is—walking where you cannot see."
At midday we came upon a cluster of rocks that cast a little shade. We laid down our cloaks and sat. Cleopatra drank from the waterskin and passed it to me.
"Are you sure we are going the right way?" she asked after a while.
My hand closed around the ankh in my pocket. The metal was hot from the sun, yet to me it carried more weight than mere bronze. "I am sure," I said slowly.
"Why?" she pressed.
"Not because I know the road," I explained. "But because it was shown to us."
Her brows lifted. "By the gods?"
I looked at her for a moment. She wanted the truth, but she could not have all of it. I smiled. "Let us say—the desert does not speak the same to everyone. To me, it showed a direction."
She did not answer right away. Then she drew closer, resting her chin on her knees. "Sometimes I don't understand you. But I always believe you."
Her words struck deeper than she knew.
We walked on. The sand began to change—low hills, dried shrubs that hinted at water long gone. It was no longer only an endless sea of gold, but a land that seemed to breathe.
Cleopatra walked ahead of me, light-footed, as if the road itself were a dance. I followed slower, feeling that every step drew us nearer to something greater than another horizon.
By evening the land shifted again—sand broken by ridges, and birds flying low across the sky. "That means water," Cleopatra cried with delight. "Perhaps we will find it tomorrow!"
I nodded, though my thoughts were heavier. Perhaps water. Perhaps a trial. But I kept it to myself.
We made camp by a scatter of stones still holding the day's warmth. Cleopatra sat, slipped off her sandals, and rubbed her feet. "I never knew sand could hurt so much," she joked, showing me her toes dusted with grains.
I handed her the waterskin. "It hurts, but it teaches. Whoever endures the sand endures anything."
She laughed and drank, then passed it back. "You should drink too. I don't want you fainting on me. Who would lead me then?"
I sighed, but took it. The water was warm, yet it eased my throat.
The sun sank below the horizon and the desert fell into silence. Only the wind whispered faintly. Cleopatra lay down on her cloak, but did not yet close her eyes. She gazed up at the stars.
"You know what is strange?" she said softly. "That here, in the desert, I don't feel alone. Even in the silence, I feel as if someone is watching us. Not with anger. More like… with protection."
I froze. Her words cut close to truth. They are watching us, I thought, and I know it better than anyone.
"Perhaps it is only the desert," I answered gently. "It wakes things in us that sleep elsewhere."
She turned toward me and smiled. "Or perhaps it's because you are with me."
Her words stole my breath. For a moment I had no answer. At last I only nodded and set my hand on the waterskin.
The night deepened, stars burning brighter. Cleopatra at last closed her eyes, her breathing soft and even. I remained awake a while longer, listening to the wind and feeling the cool weight of the ankh against my chest.
And in that silence I knew: these moments—quiet, fragile, shared only between us—might be more precious than all the answers still waiting ahead
Morning came quieter than usual. It wasn't the harsh surge of heat but a soft chill, as if the desert itself held its breath. Cleopatra was already awake, sitting on a stone and watching the horizon turn to gold.
"Today we will find something," she said as I approached.
Her certainty startled me—for it matched what I felt. The ankh pressed heavy against my chest. Today the path will lead us where sand meets water.
We walked on. The sand shifted beneath our feet, darker in places, firmer in others. The wind carried a strange dampness, not born of the desert. With every step I knew we were drawing near.
Cleopatra suddenly stopped and inhaled deeply. "Do you smell it? The air—it's different…"
"Yes," I nodded. "That is the river. We are close now."
We walked for hours more until at last the sight opened before us: a vast river spreading into many branches. The Nile pulsed like a living body, its waters glittering in the sunlight. Birds circled overhead, and the banks were thick with green.
Cleopatra cried out with joy and ran toward the water. "It's beautiful! After all those days of sand… water! Real water!"
I stood a few paces back. At first glance it was a place of peace, but I felt something else. One branch of the river flowed against the current, though no wind stirred. And in the sand along the bank were impressions—deep, not belonging to any creature I knew.
"Stop, princess," I called as she bent toward the water.
She turned, frowning. "Why? It's only a river, look how clear it is!"
I stepped closer and pointed to the tracks in the sand. "Look carefully. This is not a place that belongs only to men. This is a threshold. Where desert meets Nile, another trial begins."
Cleopatra said nothing. Her smile slowly faded, and her eyes changed—not from fear, but from tension. She understood now that the water she saw was not only a river. It was a gate.
Cleopatra stepped back from the bank and came to stand beside me. Her eyes stayed fixed on the surface of the river, swirling strangely as though moved by an unseen hand.
"What are those tracks?" she asked softly, almost in a whisper.
I knelt by the sand and brushed my fingers across the impressions. They were deep, larger than a man's footprint, and yet there was something familiar in them—shapes I had once seen carved into the walls of a temple. "Something that does not belong among mortals," I said at last. "And yet not wholly among the gods, either."
Cleopatra shivered. "Then what is it?"
"A trial," I answered.
She frowned. "But how? Are we meant to fight? To answer? To wait?"
I lifted my shoulders. "I do not know. But I know the gods do not lie. When Ptah sent me here, he knew what awaited us."
Cleopatra was silent for a moment, then her fingers brushed lightly against my forearm. "Then I will face it with you," she said firmly.
I looked at her. She was no longer the little girl I had once carried in my arms. She was a woman now, a princess with a will as unyielding as stone. And I knew that if I left her behind, she would follow on her own.
"Very well," I nodded. "But before the trial begins, we will rest. We need clear minds and strength."
We sat down in the shade of a palm that leaned over the riverbank. Cleopatra broke off a piece of bread and handed half to me. "If this is to be a trial," she said with a smile, biting into her share, "let it find us prepared."
I looked out at the rippling water, at the strange marks in the sand, at the silence hanging over us like a heavy veil. The air itself seemed to wait, holding its breath.
And I knew—the next trial was already near