The journey through the desert was long and exhausting. Sand clung to our feet, the wind carried grains into our eyes, and the water dwindled faster than I would have liked. We walked in silence, only sometimes exchanging a few words—how much farther we could go before dusk, where we might find shelter for the night, how to conserve our strength.
"Mehet," Cleopatra broke the silence, "I still don't understand. We're walking without a map. Just trusting that the gods are leading us. Are you truly certain?"
"I'm certain only of what I feel," I answered. "And what I've felt since Isis gave us the scroll hasn't changed. It's not brute force pulling us forward—it's more like a direction, a path we cannot mistake. If we stray, I would know."
"And if it leads us into a trap?"
"Then we'll have to find our way out," I said. "But whatever waits at the end, this is the road we must take. That I know."
She nodded and went on without further questions. She kept pace, though her breath sometimes trembled.
---
When a shape appeared on the horizon, different from the dunes, I stopped. At first it was only a darker line, then a sharp edge, then pillars and a gate.
"A temple," Cleopatra whispered.
"My temple," I added.
"What do you mean, 'yours'?"
"The one I once designed," I explained. "On papyrus. As practice. It was never built. No man ever raised it."
"Then why does it stand here?"
"To make me believe in what lies ahead," I said. "And to make you believe too."
We descended the dune. At the gate I laid my hand on the seam of the stones. The join was exactly where I had once imagined it. The same small imperfection at the corner, the same hidden channel beneath the lotus carving for water, the same narrow vents above the façade. This was my design—not an imitation.
"It's impossible," she breathed.
"For men," I replied. "Not for the gods."
We stepped inside.
---
The change was immediate. The silence was not empty—it was steady, full. The air smelled of oil and papyrus. Rows of signs ran along the walls, shifting slightly, as if correcting and completing themselves the way scribes do when they refuse to leave an error.
From the shadow of the altar came a figure: tall, the head of an ibis, a palette and reed brush in his hand.
I fell to my knees. Cleopatra bowed her head, half a step back, but she did not flee. She knew this was no place for games.
"Amenemhet," Thoth spoke, "you have come."
His voice was neither hard nor soft. It was clear.
"The one to whom Shai and Renenutet set the path before birth," he continued, "and to whom I placed measure and knowledge in his blood. The one who can see truth from falsehood, the solid from the hollow, the right proportion from the flawed."
I drew breath to speak, but he raised his hand.
"Your path was broken," he said. "What was done to you was not part of the plan. It was not permitted by divine order. It was a wound struck by a man empowered by Set. That is why balance falters in this land."
Cleopatra glanced at me sharply. She understood what he meant. I had never told her directly. Now she needed no explanation.
Still, I spoke aloud, leaving nothing hidden. "I am a eunuch. Not by choice. It was done to me by others."
Thoth nodded. "And it was never meant to be your fate."
"Can it be undone?" I asked.
"It can," he answered. He did not hurry with his next words; we waited. "But not here. In Duat. You must pass the gates. Anubis will weigh your heart. If you endure, he will return what was unjustly taken—your wholeness, which you need to fulfill the task you were born for."
"What task?" Cleopatra asked, her voice tense but steady.
"Now two ask questions," Thoth said, turning back to me. "Your bloodline is important for what is to come. Not so that your name will be sung. But because from it will rise what will hold Egypt together when order begins to fall. The gods do not need your monuments. They need your blood not to vanish."
Cleopatra inhaled sharply. "You mean… he must have a family?"
"I mean his blood must continue," Thoth said. "How and when is not for this hall. First he must face what lies before him."
I pressed further. "What awaits me in Duat?"
"Not all at once," he warned. "In Duat, haste belongs only to those who wish to fall. You will speak the words I give you to open the first gate. The first trial will not be of strength, but of truth. They will ask you what you did and what you did not. Answer plainly. The second trial will be of memory. You will face what you tried to forget. You must not turn away. The third will be of measure. They will offer you more than you need. You must not take it. Then Anubis will weigh your heart."
"And if he fails?" Cleopatra burst out before she could stop herself.
"Then his heart will not have the right weight," Thoth said simply. "And Duat does not forgive those who lie to themselves."
"What about me?" she asked.
"You will remain here," he said. "This temple is safe, outside Set's shadow. You will wait and listen. If something changes, remember it. If someone comes, hide. This house is his design—he knows the hidden doors. When he returns, he will find you."
"And if he doesn't?" her voice trembled only slightly.
"Then you must continue with what you already know," Thoth said. "Watching seals, treasuries, and the deeds of those closest to the throne. And remain silent until the right time."
"You won't tell us who it is," Cleopatra said.
"No," he replied. "If I give you a name, I give you a burden you cannot yet bear. You must learn it from deeds."
I did not ask further. Too much knowledge is as dangerous as too little.
Then Thoth extended a bundle of papyrus scrolls tied with red cord. "The Book of the Dead. Do not just read it—listen to it. It is not a list of spells, but guidance on how to act where truth allows no disguise."
I took it. The papyrus was not heavy—only firm.
Thoth pointed to Cleopatra's amulet. "The feather of Ma'at you wear is the key. Not alone, but together—with his gift and the Book. When the sign comes, you will open it, place your hand, and keep silent. He will walk alone."
"Why alone?" she asked again, not in defiance but needing certainty.
"Because Duat does not open for companions," he said. "Trials cannot be shared."
I raised Isis's old scroll. "It brought us here. Do you wish me to return it?"
"No," Thoth answered. "Its purpose is done. Return it to the earth. The rest lies with the Book of the Dead."
We stepped outside. I set the scroll in shallow sand and covered it with a stone. That was enough.
When we returned, Thoth still stood at the altar. He placed his reed pen beside the Book.
"This is not a weapon," he said. "It is a measure. After you return, you will need it. When it touches a false record, it will tremble. When it marks a false plan, it will break. When it points at a lie, you will see a dot you cannot forget. Not for revenge. For truth."
"I understand," I said.
"Not everything," he corrected. "But enough to begin."
Cleopatra breathed quickly beside me, then looked into my eyes. "I didn't know what was done to you," she said softly.
"I had no reason to tell you," I replied. "Not until now."
"It matters," she said. "Because if it can be undone, then you must go."
I didn't tell her I would have gone even if it didn't matter. Some words are better left unspoken.
"When?" I asked Thoth.
"When the sign comes," he said. "It won't be lightning or a voice. It will be the cold at your neck—the same you've felt before. Then you will untie the cord, open the book, place your hand, and speak. The gate will open."
"And me?" Cleopatra looked at me.
"You'll stay here, by the gate," I said. "Don't call my name. Don't pull me back. Just be here. That's more than enough."
She gave me her hand. I squeezed it. She didn't let go. "I'll wait," she said. "Even if it takes long. Even if nothing changes."
"I know," I answered.
I placed my palm on the signs. I spoke the words written in the first line, clearly and simply.
The gate opened—not with thunder, but with a change in the air. The hall no longer breathed our breath; it breathed something else. I stepped forward. Then again.
"Me—" she began, then caught herself. Instead, I heard her draw a deep breath—exactly as I had asked.
I crossed the threshold. Alone. Not abandoned. With the Book in my hands, with the knowledge of the gifts we carried, and with the thought I repeated to myself as I walked into the dark:
Do not hurry, but do not stop.
Behind me was the temple. Ahead, Duat. And between them—only one step that had to be taken.