The city was only beginning to wake. Smoke rose from the first fires. I walked straight toward the palace. The guards recognized me and let me pass without a word.
I entered the great hall, where Sobekneferu sat on a raised seat. She wore simple clothes but with a crown shaped like a serpent's head. Her presence was commanding, and she watched me as I bowed.
"So you came," she said. Her voice was calm but firm.
"I came as I promised," I answered.
She smiled, though not like a friend. It was the smile of a ruler, testing whether someone was worthy of her trust.
"From today, you will serve as my advisor. But an advisor is not just a title. I want you to prove what you can do. Not with words—by deeds."
I nodded. "I understand."
"Start by looking at what we have," she continued, "and tell me what must be improved. The palace, the stores, the guards, the temples. Everything. I want you to adapt and see what truly matters."
"I'll begin at once," I said.
She motioned to one of her overseers. "Take him. Give him what he needs, but watch him carefully."
The man, an older steward in a long robe, nodded and led me through the palace halls. They were simpler than I expected. The walls had no lavish gold or mosaics, only painted scenes of victories and offerings.
"Here are the granaries," the steward said, opening a heavy gate. Inside, grain was stored in clay silos, many of them cracked. I smelled the sour stench of spoiled grain.
"It often spoils," the steward admitted. "We try to cover it up, but… it doesn't always work."
I nodded. "You need a different way of storing it. These jars hold moisture. You need a better shape and a drier place."
The steward looked at me with surprise. "I've said that before. No one listened."
"Then we'll make sure it's done now," I answered firmly.
We moved on. In the courtyard, the guards trained. They held spears and shields, but their formation was sloppy. I stopped to watch. One soldier stumbled, another held his shield too low.
"Your men are brave," I told the steward, "but they lack order. When an enemy strikes, they won't stand together. They'll fall one by one."
"You are no soldier," the steward replied.
"No. But I know what discipline looks like. Here I see none. If they learn to hold the line, to protect each other, their strength won't be in the man but in the formation."
The steward said nothing, though he didn't argue.
Our last stop was a temple. It was small, built of rough stone. Inside, priests chanted, but their voices clashed. The altar was cluttered, piled with offerings without any pattern.
"Worship here is weak," I remarked. "The gods need order. If the sacrifice has no rules, its power is wasted."
The priests frowned at me but did not speak.
The steward finally brought me back to the palace. "You've pointed things out. But tell me—what do you intend to do with them?"
I stopped and answered plainly: "Nothing, until the Pharaoh commands it. But I know what must be done. And if she trusts me, I will see it through."
The steward was silent, then gave a brief nod and left.
I returned to Sobekneferu. She was waiting in her chamber.
"Well?" she asked. "What did you see?"
I met her gaze. "I see many things to improve. Granaries that don't protect the grain. Guards that fight without discipline. Temples without order. All of this can be changed. Not at once, but step by step."
Sobekneferu smiled—this time, a little differently. Not just as a ruler, but as someone who thought she may have found what she was searching for.
"Good," she said. "Then you will show me how."
Time passed faster than I had thought. Not days, not weeks, but whole months during which I worked in the palace, in the courtyards, in the temples and the fields. Each day I learned more about this world, and each day I tried, in small ways, to make things better.
The steward who had shown me around the palace at the beginning was named Menekhotep. He was a man of middle years, his face lined with deep wrinkles, but his eyes were sharp as a hawk's. He was neither too harsh nor too lenient—he could be strict, but never unfair. Soon I realized that it was he who truly kept the order inside the palace. Sobekneferu trusted him, but not blindly. And Menekhotep valued people who knew more than just how to command.
In the first days, he treated me with caution. He listened to what I said but never revealed whether he agreed with me or not. But when I suggested a new way of storing grain, and after the first harvest the grain lasted longer and didn't rot as it used to, his view of me changed. It was no longer just formal respect—I saw in his eyes a spark of trust.
"You know," he told me once as we sat in the evening, checking the supplies, "we've spent our whole lives here trying to do things the way our fathers taught us. You're the first to show me that not everything old is the best way. I don't know where you learned it, but I see that it works."
"Sometimes it's enough just to watch," I replied simply. "Nature itself will show you what you're doing wrong. You just need to listen."
From then on, Menekhotep came to me more often. Sometimes he asked for my opinions, other times he tested me, probing whether I could respond when someone doubted me. And I realized he had become more than a colleague. He was a friend I could trust.
The second man who gradually drew closer to me was a young soldier named Pakhet. He wasn't a commander, just an ordinary guard, but he stood out among the others. His eyes were quick, his step firm, and when I looked at him I saw the future of the army. He wasn't brutish like most soldiers who relied only on strength. Pakhet was willing to learn.
I still remember the first day I spoke to him. The guards were training in the courtyard, and as usual their formation broke apart. The officer shouted, but the men couldn't keep their shields locked together. Only Pakhet kept correcting his stance, even scolding the man next to him.
After the training I approached him. "What's your name?" I asked.
"Pakhet," he said, surprised that someone from the advisors would address him.
"Do you know why your formation doesn't work?"
He hesitated. "Because the men don't concentrate."
"No," I shook my head. "Because no one has explained to them why it matters. You understand it. I can see that. If you want, I'll teach you more. And one day you may be the one teaching them."
From then on he became my shadow. After training he would follow me, asking how they should stand, how to cover themselves, how to hold the spear. I had never been a soldier, but I knew how discipline worked. I knew that the strength of an army was in its unity, not in individuals. And he absorbed it eagerly, so much so that I saw in him the future commander.
Over time we grew closer outside of training as well. He even invited me once to his family's modest home near the palace walls. His mother offered me bread and dates, and though little was said, I felt their respect simply because their son spoke of me with pride.
Meanwhile I kept working on improvements inside the palace and the city.
We rebuilt the granaries—replacing the clay jars with larger, better-ventilated storehouses that kept the grain dry. People doubted it would work, but after the next harvest nothing spoiled, and even the harshest skeptics had to admit the change was good.
In the temples, I brought order to the offerings. I taught the priests that sacrifice wasn't about how much was given, but how it was done. They began giving food also to the poor—something rarely done before. And the people noticed. They began to believe the gods truly heard their prayers.
For the soldiers, I pushed for shorter but more frequent training. Instead of exhaustion and chaos, I wanted unity. The commanders protested, but when Sobekneferu herself came to watch one day, and saw her guards standing firmly in line, spears ready, shields locked together, she nodded and smiled. That was a victory worth the days of persuasion.
Menekhotep and Pakhet were there through it all. Menekhotep as the steward, helping me gain access to people and resources. Pakhet as the soldier who showed the others that my words were not empty.
And I realized that without them I would have been just an outsider speaking ideas no one believed. But with them, I had a chance.
One evening, the three of us sat together in the courtyard, torches burning and temple chants echoing in the distance. Menekhotep poured wine, Pakhet tore at bread, and I watched the flames.
"You know," Menekhotep began, "people in the city are talking about you. Not all believe you. Some think you've come to take a place that doesn't belong to you."
"And what do you think?" I asked.
He raised his cup and looked me straight in the eyes. "I think you came at a time when Egypt needs you. And if you're wise, you can help. But if you make a mistake, they'll crush you before you even know why."
"That's true," I admitted quietly.
Pakhet smiled. "For me, it matters that you're the only one who's shown us we can be better. I believe in you. And I believe that one day I'll lead men, just like you said."
I smiled at him. "If you keep going, you will."
That moment stayed with me. It wasn't the palace, nor Sobekneferu's power. It was two men who showed me that even here, in this distant time, friendship could be found. And maybe that was what was meant to keep me strong until the greater trials came.