When we returned to the capital after days on the road, the streets greeted us with noise. People stood along the sides, clapping, waving, some even calling our names. For them, it was good news—the south was once again under the Pharaoh's rule, the rebellion crushed. For me, it was only a temporary victory.
In the palace, she received us personally. She sat on a raised seat, with priests and the commanders of the guard standing beside her. Karem stood proud, his back straight, his bloodied tunic already replaced with a clean one, though his hands still bore the marks of battle.
"Amenemhet, Karem," she said. Her voice was steady, but in her eyes I could see relief. "You have delivered the report of victory, but I wanted to hear your words directly."
I told her everything. How we advanced, how the rebels resisted, how we captured the towns one by one. I didn't mention what I had felt by the river. That was mine alone.
When I finished, she nodded. "Egypt is grateful. And I am grateful." She looked at Karem. "You led men bravely. From this day forward, you are a commander. You will have your own unit."
Karem gasped in surprise, then bowed. "Thank you, Pharaoh. I promise I will be loyal."
She added: "But you will remain under the guidance of Amenemhet. His experience is your direction. Learn from him."
Karem smiled and nodded at me. In his eyes I saw pride, but also respect. He knew that promotion did not mean the end of our journey together.
After the ceremony, we were taken to a hall where food and wine awaited. People celebrated us, but my thoughts were elsewhere. When the celebrations ended and everyone left, I remained alone in my room.
I sat in the dark for a long time, leaning against the stone wall, and my thoughts wouldn't stop turning. It was clear now that Sobek had already been given his spark. Human blood, the river, and fear — that was enough for him to begin forming. And I had been there when it happened.
"If he can be born from blood and terror," I said quietly to myself, "then the others must need their own beginning too. But how?"
I thought back to what I knew from my own time. The gods had never stood alone. People built temples for them, brought offerings, priests sang hymns, and stories turned into myths. It wasn't just belief — it was order that gave them a face and strength.
"I need to start with the people," I told myself. "Not with the gods. They aren't here yet. But if people start believing, if they begin to carry out rituals, if they tie their lives to names and symbols, then the gods will start to take form."
I remembered Ma'at — the feather I carry, her sign. Truth, order, balance. That could be the foundation. People needed order after war, rules that would hold them together.
"If I establish a temple to Ma'at," I thought, "and teach priests to sing hymns, to sacrifice in the proper way, if the people see them as the voice of truth… then the power will gather. And from that, Ma'at will be born, just as I know her."
Next was Hathor — joy, dance, wine, life. The people already had her in their hearts, they just hadn't given her a name. Festivals, laughter, music — if these were tied to a symbol, to a temple, then her power would grow.
And Thoth — knowledge, writing, healing. That was something I could give. I had the skills, I knew the signs, I knew medicine. If I began teaching and tied it to his name, Thoth would begin to take form.
I rested my head in my hands. "That's it," I said to myself. "I can't wait for them to appear on their own. I have to help them. I have to create the foundation. I have to bring them to life with what I already know."
But there was the question: where to start? One temple? One god? Or all at once?
"If I start with Ma'at," I thought, "I can bring order. The people will understand that law and truth hold Egypt together. If I start with Hathor, the people will turn to her through joy, through festivals. And Thoth… that's a longer road, but a solid one."
I clenched the feather I always carried in my palm. I felt its lightness, but also the weight of the choice.
"I have to teach them," I whispered. "I have to guide them. If Sobek rose from blood, then the others must rise from life. And I have to give it to them."
I was sitting alone in my chamber, maps and notes spread out before me. My thoughts were on the gods—how to give them strength, how to create a counterweight to Sobek, who had just been born from the blood of battle. The more I thought about it, the more I understood that fighting alone was not enough. I had to begin building, leading the people, showing them how gods could take form through order, temples, and rituals.
A sharp knock on the door broke my thoughts.
"Enter," I said.
It was Steward Menkhotep. He was no longer a young man, but still strong, his face lined with years of experience. His steps were firm, though his eyes carried fatigue.
"Amenemhet," he addressed me, bowing slightly. "I need your help."
I pushed the maps aside. "What is it?"
"The city," he sighed. "After the war it is broken. Many houses burned, the grain stores destroyed, roads torn apart. The people are exhausted, and though they rejoice in victory, they have no strength to rebuild on their own. They need direction. They need someone to show them where to begin."
I looked at him silently for a moment. I had wanted to think about the gods, about greater plans, but Menkhotep reminded me of what I already knew—gods draw their strength from people. And if the people suffer, the gods will never rise.
"What do you suggest?" I asked.
"You have seen much," he said firmly. "You have knowledge we lack. You know how to build, how to organize. If you take the lead, if you show us where to start, the people will follow you. I will do my part, but I need you by my side."
I took a deep breath. This was an opportunity. Not only to help the people, but to lay the foundations for what I planned.
"Very well," I nodded. "We start with food and water. Then shelter. And only after that—the temples and the roads."
Hope lit up in Menkhotep's eyes. "That is exactly what I hoped you would say."
I nodded again. "But remember this, Menkhotep. If we want Egypt to rise after war, we cannot only repair it. We must make it stronger than it was before."
"I understand," he replied, his voice regaining steady confidence. "Tomorrow morning I'll gather the people. You'll be there?"
"Yes," I answered without hesitation