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Chapter 28 - The scroll

The path along the Nile felt endless. The sun was sinking low, painting the sand gold and the river red with its fading fire. The water flowed calmly, as though unaware that a goddess had just stood upon its banks.

We walked in silence, the scroll of Isis heavy in my hands. Its weight pressed into me, but heavier still were her words—Cleopatra's anger, Isis's warning. Between us lingered a silence I could not break.

Cleopatra walked ahead of me, her head bowed, as if avoiding my gaze. Slowly, her steps faltered, and she drew back until she walked at my side. Her hands clenched and unclenched, as though she wrestled with herself.

"Mehet…" she said softly. Her voice was not sharp as it had been before, but hesitant, almost shy.

"I was unfair," she admitted, halting to face me. Her eyes still glistened with tears, but the fury was gone. "What I said before… it came from anger. From fear. I don't want you to think I am selfish."

She turned her gaze toward the river, then back to me. "The truth is… I'm glad the goddess spoke to you. If anyone was meant to bear her gift, it is you. You who have taught me, protected me, and stood by me when others could not or would not. You who always knew what words to give me so I could find courage. If she had given me the scroll, perhaps I would have faltered. But you… you are stronger than you believe."

Her words cut deeper than any blade. For the first time, she spoke with no pride, no demand. Only honesty.

"I don't want you to see me as a spoiled child," she continued, her voice steadier now. "I want you to see that I can be grateful. That I can accept when another is chosen. And I truly am happy for you, Mehet. Because with this gift, I know you can protect me—and Egypt—better than before."

Her hand brushed mine. A fleeting, hesitant touch, but it froze time itself. It was not the grasp of a child seeking comfort, but the touch of a young woman, deliberate and knowing.

I tried to speak, but my throat tightened. And in that moment, memory washed over me.

I remembered the day I first held her as a newborn. So small, so fragile, that I feared she might slip through my arms. Then, I swore to myself I would protect her, whatever the cost. And now—before me stood no longer the child who once stumbled through her first letters, but a young woman thanking me with words I never thought to hear.

"Princess…" I whispered, nothing more would come.

She smiled—not the playful smile of a girl, but the steady smile of a woman who knew the weight of her words. "I know you are a slave. But to me, you are more. You are my strength. And today I realized… without you, I would not be who I am. That is why I don't want you to think me selfish. I want you to know—I trust you more than anyone."

Then she let go of my hand and stepped forward. Her stride was different now—firmer, assured.

I remained still, watching her back. And I knew in that moment: Cleopatra's childhood had ended. She was no longer the little girl who laughed at my stories in the palace halls. She was a princess grown into herself.

And my vow to protect her weighed heavier on me than ever before.

The road along the Nile was long, but after her apology the silence between us was different. No longer heavy and sharp, but calm, full of thoughts that did not need to be spoken. Cleopatra walked beside me, her eyes occasionally drifting to the scroll in my hands, as if something in it pulled her closer.

So did I. The scroll burned in my grasp. Not with pain, but with a constant presence—as if its weight reminded me that it belonged to another world, not mine.

I stopped. "Princess," I said, "it is time."

She tilted her head. "Time for what?"

"To see what Isis has entrusted to us. This is not just a gift. It is a path. And a path cannot be ignored."

I unrolled the papyrus. At once the air around us seemed to change. From the scroll rose a fragrance—lotus blossoms mingled with incense, and something bitter, like the ashes of an ancient sacrifice.

The signs gleamed like metal. Some golden, others silver, still others shifting as I turned the parchment. And when I looked long enough, they stopped being mere letters. They flowed like a river—liquid, alive.

And in that river, I heard a voice. Not with my ears, but inside myself. The voice of the goddess. It spoke of a river that flowed also with shadows. Of a desert where the line between life and death blurred. Of the Valley of Shadows, where once Osiris had walked, and where now an answer awaited—one heavier than any battle.

My hands trembled, not with fear, but with the weight of knowledge.

Cleopatra watched me, her eyes wide. "What does it say?" she asked.

"To the west," I whispered. "To the Valley of Shadows. That is where we are led."

I saw her face change—first a flicker of unease, then a smile. The same smile she wore when, as a child, she heard my tales of heroes. "The Valley of Shadows… like in your stories."

"Stories have become reality, Princess," I told her. "And now we are part of them."

The scroll rolled itself shut, as though it had a will of its own. In my hands remained only parchment, yet I felt it would never release me.

---

My inner monologue:

A gift from the goddess. That is what she called it. But I knew divine gifts are never truly gifts. They are always trials.

As I walked with the papyrus in my hands, I felt it like a chain. Not heavy, not visible, but unyielding. It pulled me toward a place I could not refuse to go. And though it warmed me with the knowledge that the goddess saw me, it frightened me as well—for it reminded me that I would never again be who I once was.

Images rose in my mind. The temple I repaired first. Back then, I thought it chance—that I noticed a crack where others did not. Then the other shrines I designed, adorned with flowers and mosaics. I believed it was nothing more than the gift of an architect. But what if it was not a gift at all? What if it was preparation?

Perhaps every stone I laid was not for men, but for the gods. Perhaps every altar I restored was not service to the pharaoh, but an answer to their silent questions. And perhaps that is why they chose me now. Not because I was wise. Not because I was learned. But because I had served them wordlessly for years.

The thought chilled me. The eyes of men are not like the eyes of gods. Men reward or punish, then forget. But gods? Once they look into you, they never release you.

I turned to Cleopatra, walking lightly at my side. Her step was eager, her eyes shining with excitement for the path she had once only heard of in stories. She did not know the scroll was more than a map. That it was also a curse.

She let herself believe it was a gift for me, to guard her. And perhaps she was right. But I already knew—this scroll was a bond between me and the gods. And that bond would never break.

I was no longer merely a slave of the pharaoh. Nor only a teacher to the princess. I was a wanderer who carried the will of the gods. And that will would lead me until it consumed me entirely.

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