The following months were filled with work. Every day began early, before sunrise, and ended late at night.
At first, we focused on what was most necessary — food and shelter. Together with Menkhotep, we gathered grain from areas the war had not touched and distributed it among those who had lost everything. People who still had strength helped build temporary homes from straw and mud. It wasn't grand, but it brought hope.
Then came the warehouses, wells, and roads. I showed them how to reinforce the banks of the Nile so that the floodwaters would not destroy everything again. I taught them how to carve simpler, stronger blocks that would last longer than a single season.
When the basic reconstruction was finished, I began introducing order. We set down the first simple laws: whoever damaged another's fields had to repair them; whoever stole bread had to return twice as much; whoever committed murder would be brought before the assembly. It was harsh but clear — and the people accepted it. They believed it brought justice. And so the first spark of Ma'at was born — order above chaos.
In time, I also turned to the question of death. After the battles, many bodies were left behind, which people only buried shallowly in the sand. That caused sickness. I explained to them that the body must be preserved — that death need not be the end if the dead kept their form.
We began with simple embalming. We removed the organs, used salt and herbs, wrapped the bodies in linen. At first the people didn't understand, but when they saw that the bodies lasted for months without rot, they began to believe this was a way to preserve a person for another life. And so belief in Osiris was born, the lord of the underworld, who welcomes the dead if they are prepared.
Alongside all this, I supervised the temples. Simple stone structures became centers of life. People brought offerings, sang songs, and priests — whom I taught — began to lead the rituals systematically. Each temple became a place where the order of Ma'at joined with the faith in Osiris.
Karem stayed by my side, ensuring security and watching over the workers. Menkhotep handled supplies and oversaw the building. I tied it all together — science, medicine, law, and religion.
It wasn't the work of a single day or a single month. It took entire cycles of floods and droughts, but in the end, the city was different. It was no longer ruins after war. It was a place where order ruled, where the dead departed prepared for the next world, where people felt that a power greater than themselves watched over them.
And so, while Sobek grew stronger through blood and fear, I, step by step, built the foundation for Osiris and Ma'at. It was not a battle fought with the sword, but a battle fought in the minds of the people. And I began to feel that the gods, who had no faces yet, were slowly beginning to form
Time moved faster than I realized. Years of work left marks on my hands, but even greater ones on the land. Egypt was growing.
The fields were no longer dependent only on the Nile's moods. The dams and canals we built carried water farther than ever before. The harvest was larger, and hunger retreated. People began to say it wasn't just their work, but that the land itself gave them favor. And so, another foundation was born — a goddess of fertility who protected the fields.
In the towns, new workshops appeared. I taught them how to make better tools, how to strengthen metal, how to help each other at work. When a man broke a tool, his neighbor lent him another. When a woman fell sick, other women brought her food. From ordinary deeds, a rule was formed. People began to believe that someone above them was weighing these deeds. And so, more and more often, the name Ma'at was spoken — justice and balance.
Even death was no longer as terrifying as it once had been. Mummification became common practice. The priests I had taught began speaking of how every soul traveled to the realm where Osiris judged their deeds. Families gathered to talk about the life their father or mother had lived, and prayed that they would stand strong in the afterlife. A faith that once did not exist was now growing.
Pharaoh Sobekneferu watched what was happening. Her power grew, because the land beneath her was stronger than before. She often called me to her side, asking me to explain why people built altars, why they set aside the first loaf of bread from the harvest, why families gathered at the tombs. And I told her simply:
"People themselves create the gods. With every deed, every offering, every song. They believe, and from that belief comes power."
She nodded and understood. And she allowed it to continue.
Meanwhile, Karem was growing too. He was no longer just a soldier — he had become a commander. I saw how men followed his orders without question. He was strict, but fair. When he handed out bread after a hard battle, he was always last to take his share. People began to compare him to a god of war, a protector who stood at the front, never hiding behind the backs of others.
And so, without me needing to speak a single name, without me needing to explain, the gods began to be born. Not from my words, but from the deeds of the people.
To see it was strange. In the time I had come from, they already had names, faces, temples. Here, they were only beginnings, like shapes slowly forming out of mist. But I knew this was the true start of their power
I sat on the floor mat across from Nakht, who was finally able to focus for more than just a few minutes. He was nine years old now, sharp and curious. In his hands, he held a piece of charcoal I had given him, and I showed him how to draw simple shapes on a flat stone.
"Look," I told him, drawing a simple triangle. "This isn't just a mark. This is how you draw a roof, the kind that will keep you safe. And if you add this," I drew another line, "you already have a house."
Nakht smiled and tried to copy it. His lines were crooked, but he was determined. "House," he said out loud, as if trying to lock the connection between word and drawing into his memory.
"Exactly," I nodded. "When you learn, you open your path. That way nothing will stop you one day."
It was then that Neseret came in. She carried a clay jar of water, set it in the corner, and sat down beside us. She watched her son laughing as he tried to fix his crooked lines.
"You're like a father to him," she said quietly.
I didn't look at her right away. My eyes stayed on the boy. "He learns quickly. That's his strength. Your blood runs strong in him."
When Nakht finally fell asleep on the mat, still clutching the piece of charcoal, Neseret moved closer to me. Her voice turned serious.
"Amenemhet," she began, "can I ask you something?"
I nodded.
"I noticed a long time ago… you don't change. At all. Years have gone by. Nakht has grown, I've aged… but you're exactly the same. You don't look a day older. I noticed it years ago, but I waited. I thought maybe it was just my imagination. But it isn't."
Her words struck me harder than she realized. For a long time I said nothing, searching for the right answer.
Finally, I said: "You know what I've noticed? That ever since I've known you, you've been just as beautiful. When you smile, you look exactly the same as when I first met you."
She smiled faintly, but the question remained in her eyes. "That's sweet, but it isn't an answer. How is it possible?"
I took a deep breath. "When you care about someone, you see them the way you want to. And I… I see you like this. To me, you haven't changed."
She fell silent, studying me as though she wanted to pierce through my words. In the end, she only nodded, though I knew her curiosity was far from gone.
When she left to check on her son, I was left alone with my thoughts.
"She's right," I muttered to myself. "Years pass, and I remain the same. How much longer will this go on? Ten years? Twenty? A hundred?"
A dryness caught in my throat. It wasn't just immortality. It was what came with it. Every year that passed, the gap between me and them would grow larger. Nakht would grow old, Neseret would grow old too. And I… I would remain as I am now.
That thought frightened me more than anything I had faced so far.