The scroll was once more rolled and tucked at my side, yet within me it remained open. Our footsteps on the sand whispered of a future I did not wish to name.
Cleopatra walked silently beside me. There was a spark in her eyes, but the longer she studied me, the darker her face grew. At last she spoke:
"Mehet… you haven't told me everything."
I turned my head. Her voice was not harsh or commanding, but searching, almost vulnerable. As though she feared I had hidden something from her, leaving her blind in my shadow.
"What do you mean, Princess?" I asked.
"When you read the scroll," she continued, "your eyes were different. As if you saw more than you spoke aloud. You told me of the desert and the valley, but your silence… it was louder than your words."
For a moment I stopped. The wind pressed against my shoulders, sand hissing around us as though the gods themselves listened. The truth surged up on my tongue. I wanted to tell her the scroll was a chain. That it was no gift but a burden, a curse and a path all in one.
But I could not.
I smiled gently, calmly, as if to chase away her doubts. "The images I saw are always greater than the reality. The gods love to speak in riddles. Perhaps I looked grave because I understood our steps would be heavier than I hoped. But I have not kept anything from you."
Her eyes narrowed, probing, as though she sought a lie hidden in my words. Then she asked:
"And you? Are you not afraid?"
---
My inner monologue:
She feared I was lying. And she would not have been wrong. I felt fear in every part of my body. Fear of the gods who had given me this gift but stolen my freedom. Fear of what awaited me, what awaited us both. Fear even of her—of her eyes, which saw me more clearly than anyone else ever had.
How could I tell her that I was afraid? That each night, when I closed my eyes, I felt the gaze of gods upon me, examining me as though I were only their plaything? That I feared the moment when I would discover just how much I was capable of losing?
But her gaze, full of trust… that I could not wound with the weight of my fear.
---
"Fear," I said at last, slowly, "is useful, Princess. It teaches us where to step and where not to. But as long as we walk together, I am not afraid of more than I must be."
For an instant her hand rested on me. A fleeting touch, yet its warmth seeped through my skin. "Good," she said. "Then I believe you. But if that should ever change… if there is something that concerns me… you will tell me."
"I promise," I replied.
We walked on. She was content, convinced she had her answer. I carried a heavier heart, knowing I had given her only half the truth. But sometimes, half a truth is the only shield you can offer someone you cannot bear to lose
The road dragged on slowly, sand crunching beneath our feet, the wind tugging at the edges of our cloaks. We had walked in silence for a long time, yet both of us felt the unspoken words that hung heavy between us.
It was I who finally spoke them aloud.
"Cleopatra… during the trial, when the goddess spoke to us, I did not tell you everything."
She lifted her eyes to mine, calm, without fear.
"I suspected as much," she replied. "Your gaze revealed more than your lips."
I nodded.
"Isis spoke not only of the path ahead of us. She gave a warning. For your father."
Her step slowed for a moment.
"A warning?"
"She said that the Pharaoh has an enemy close beside him," I said carefully. "Not in foreign lands, not in armies across the borders, but here. In his very shadow."
Her brow furrowed, her expression hardening.
"Close beside him… that means the palace. Someone he trusts."
"That is the sharpest warning of all," I agreed. "The gods gave no names. They speak in riddles. But if there is an enemy, it will be one who holds his greatest trust."
Cleopatra walked in silence for a while, eyes fixed on the ground. Then she lifted her head.
"Priests? Generals? Or one of his advisers who always tells him what he wants to hear?"
"Perhaps," I answered. "But that is why we must be cautious. True betrayal never comes from those you suspect openly. Betrayal comes from where you least wish to see it. From the hand you yourself would place in the fire."
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"So no certainties. Only silence and vigilance."
"Exactly," I said. "And that is the hardest part. For everyone in the palace seeks certainty—in words, in oaths, in the gods. But when the gods warn you of a shadow, it means you must even doubt your own eyes."
She walked quietly for a long time, until at last she said:
"My father trusts you more than the generals, more than the priests. If he ever doubts, he will turn to you. And I…" She paused, searching for the words. "I must be ready to see what he will not. If I am ever to stand in his place."
I stopped and looked at her. Her voice no longer sounded like that of a child, nor an impulsive youth. It was firm, clear, and resolute. It was the voice of a woman who knew what it meant to bear the weight of power.
"That is why I told you," I admitted. "Not to frighten you. But because if I must bear this burden, so must you. For one day it will be yours. And if I am wrong, then at least we will be prepared—together."
Cleopatra nodded.
"Very well. Then I promise, if anything is touched by shadow, I will search for where it falls. And I will never leave it unnoticed."
We walked on in silence, but it was no longer empty. It was the silence of two people who shared a secret.
"Cleopatra," I said after a while, "the warning of Isis was no small thing. An enemy close to the Pharaoh means suspicion falls on those nearest to him."
She looked at me with a grave gaze.
"Do you have names?"
I hesitated, then nodded.
"Panefer. High priest of the temple of Amun. His power is immense, reaching into every layer of society. He pretends to serve the gods, but every step he takes serves only his own glory."
Cleopatra considered this.
"Panefer… my father often listens to him. Sometimes more than he should."
"Then there is General Khay," I continued. "His power in the army is undeniable. He has fought for Egypt, yes, but his ambition is greater than the borders of our kingdom. And a man who hungers for power is dangerous."
"General Khay would never be content in the shadows," Cleopatra said firmly. "If he chose betrayal, he would do it openly."
I inclined my head.
"Perhaps. But that is the trick of the shadow. Sometimes it hides in the one you least expect."
I drew a deep breath.
"And finally, Djedhor, the vizier. A man with a tongue sweeter than honey and a smile that never fades. He relies neither on armies nor on gods, but on words. He always knows what to say to make anyone believe he is a friend. And for that reason, I do not trust him."
Cleopatra pressed her lips together.
"Panefer, Khay, Djedhor… all could stand at my father's side. And all could betray him."
"Exactly," I said. "And I do not know which of them is the true shadow. Perhaps none of them. But I know this: Isis did not speak idly. That is why we must watch more closely than ever before. For the one who smiles may also conceal a blade."
We walked on. The wind quieted, and silence settled between us, but it was not empty. It was the silence of two minds turning over the names that had been spoken.
---
Amenemhet's inner monologue:
I knew I had just laid a burden on her shoulders she did not have to bear. Yet I felt I could no longer remain silent. Not with her.
Cleopatra was now part of this weight. The gods themselves had led her onto this path, and I… I could only guide her, protect her, but never lie to her. If she was ever to stand beside her people, she had to know the faces of the shadows that masquerade as light.
Panefer, Khay, Djedhor… perhaps none of them. Perhaps another. But one thing I knew with certainty: the goddess did not lie. And when the shadow finally moves, we must be ready.
---
Cleopatra's fists tightened as she walked.
"Panefer, Khay, Djedhor… all of them smile, all speak convincingly. How can I know who lies, when each of them pretends to serve my father?"
"Words are like water, princess," I said. "You take them in your hands, and soon nothing remains. Truth is not found in words, but in deeds. Panefer preaches humility, yet his temple is adorned more with gold than with prayer. Khay swears loyalty, yet his soldiers fear his wrath more than the enemy. And Djedhor… he never stumbles in his flatteries, and it is for that very reason they lack any spark of sincerity."
"So I must watch not what they say, but what they do?" she asked.
"Exactly," I nodded. "The gods teach us that lies can sound like music, but the step of a traitor always leaves a trace in the sand. It is not easy, for footprints can be covered, but the one who keeps his eyes open will see them."
Cleopatra narrowed her eyes.
"And what if I am wrong? What if I point to the innocent?"
"Then you are in danger," I admitted. "That is why you must not rush. You must never let the shadow know that you suspect it. Silence and patience are our weapons. Your father knows that I am watching. And now the goddess knows that you are ready to watch as well."
She walked in silence for a while, then finally said:
"You teach me how to search for the truth, but also how to keep it hidden. It is harder than I thought."
"It is," I agreed. "But power is not about loud words, Cleopatra. Power is about what you keep to yourself until the right moment comes."
Her gaze softened briefly.
"Very well. Then I will watch. And when the time comes, I will be ready."
We walked on, our steps muffled by the sand. The names Panefer, Khay, and Djedhor echoed in my ears like a warning. And I knew that through this conversation, the two of us had become fellow travelers not only through the desert, but also in the secret we were bound to guard.