I opened my eyes.
I was no longer standing in the temple. I was on a stone road stretching out before me. On either side stood rows of statues – simple, unadorned, carved from rough stone. They weren't like the ones I knew from my own time. They were older. Harsher.
I looked up. The sky was covered with heavy clouds. No sun, no blue. Only a red hue, as if the day itself was just being born.
I breathed in. The air was different. I could smell dust, stone, and the smoke of sacrifices. It was Egypt, but not the Egypt I knew.
I took a few steps. The sound of my feet on the stone was hard, almost hollow.
On the horizon I saw a city. It was not large. The walls were high but still without decoration, without golden reliefs. The houses were low, the streets narrow. And in the center rose a temple – crude, unadorned, raw.
I stood and stared at it.
"So this is how it looked in the beginning," I told myself. "This is how Egypt looked when it was just being born."
I leaned against the statue beside me. For a moment, I just stood and listened to the silence. By now I understood – this was no dream. This was the past.
And if the gods had sent me here, it meant only one thing. My journey had begun right here.
I walked a few steps down the stone road, descending from the plateau toward the city. The closer I came, the more I noticed the differences.
The walls weren't smooth but built from roughly cut blocks. Everything felt raw, unrefined, but strong. Guards at the gate stood straight, holding short spears and wooden shields. Their clothing was simpler than the men I had known in my own time – just linen skirts and leather belts.
When I passed through the gate, I felt the eyes of the people on me. Women carried baskets of grain, men worked at the kilns, children ran barefoot in the dust. All of them stared at me as though I didn't belong.
One of the women spoke. Her voice was sharp, clipped, but not entirely foreign. I understood her – but not fully. The words were similar, but shorter, harder, as if the language had not yet formed all its shapes.
"Who are you?" she asked.
I stopped and tried to answer. "I am a traveler… from far away," I said slowly. I noticed her brow furrow, as if she didn't understand every word. So I repeated more simply: "Stranger. Journey."
This time she nodded, though still with suspicion.
Another man carrying a jug of water laughed and said something at my expense. The words were rougher, but I caught the meaning: "Look at him, he doesn't even belong among us."
I realized their speech was like the roots of my own language – the same tree, only in a different form. I would have to listen carefully if I wanted to adapt.
I walked on slowly, observing the streets. They were narrow, the houses low, their roofs made of straw. No golden ornaments, no tall columns. This was Egypt when it was still being shaped.
By the well stood a group of men. One of them, tall with a scar across his cheek, noticed me. "Hey, stranger!" he called out. "Why are you here?"
I stopped and took a deep breath. This was my first true contact.
"I came… looking for the temple," I replied. The word temple seemed familiar to them too, because the man paused, then nodded.
He pointed toward the center of the city, where the crude stone building rose. "There. But be careful. That is not a place for just anyone."
I nodded. I knew my path led there.
The crossing of streets guided me toward the city's heart. I felt the people's eyes on me, their whispers trailing behind, but no one stood in my way. Maybe out of curiosity, maybe out of fear.
The temple stood on a low rise. It wasn't grand like those I knew. Small stone blocks piled together without decoration, only doors etched with signs I could barely recognize. They weren't the letters I had learned – they were older, rougher, as if not yet fully formed.
I stopped at the entrance. There were no guards, only smoke from burning torches.
I stepped inside.
It was cooler within. I smelled burnt herbs, and somewhere deeper in the temple, slow chants echoed. A group of priests stood around the altar, which was simple – just a block of stone with a jug of water and a bowl of grain upon it.
When I entered, the chanting stopped.
One of the elder priests, bald and draped in a long robe, stepped forward. His eyes fixed on me, as if he knew I did not belong to their world.
"Stranger," he said with a hard voice. "What do you seek in the temple of the gods?"
I drew a deep breath. "I seek answers," I replied. "The gods sent me here."
A murmur rose in the hall. The priests exchanged glances.
The elder tilted his head. "The gods do not send mortals. And if they do… it is never without a price."
He gestured for me to come closer. I obeyed and stepped toward the altar.
On the stones were etched signs – and among them I saw a symbol I recognized. A feather. The same feather Cleopatra wore around her neck. The same mark Ma'at had given me.
My heart pounded harder. This was the place where they had led me.
"Do you know what this sign means?" the priest asked.
I looked at it and nodded. "It is the feather of truth. The mark of Ma'at."
The man's gaze sharpened, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "Then perhaps you do not lie. Perhaps you truly belong where you do not know."
He ordered the others to step back and pointed toward a corridor leading deeper into the temple. "Go. But remember – whoever enters may return changed. Or not return at all."
I gave no answer. I only nodded and stepped into the shadow of the corridor.