The sun dipped low behind the walls of the palace, casting long golden rays over the city. The gates opened wide as Amen and the remnants of the loyalist army returned.
Trumpets blared as Amen, bloodstained and still bearing the gash across his chest, rode next to his father, Pharaoh Horemheb. The palace steps were flanked by high priests and nobles waiting for their triumphant return. Their faces beamed with pride.
Inside the palace, the Great Hall was lit by hundreds of oil lamps. The air was filled with the aroma of roasted lamb, dates, lentil stew, and freshly baked barley bread.
Though Egypt suffered under the grip of a poor harvest, the feast was modestly grand, a careful balance between celebration and responsibility. No golden fountains or extravagant foreign wines. Just enough to honor a return without mocking the struggles of the people.
Amen stood beside his father at the head of a long table carved from sycamore wood. Around him were commanders who had doubted him, now raising cups in salute. Among them, General Ramesu, broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, stepped forward.
"You fought like a warrior," Ramesu said with a dry chuckle. "Perhaps you are truly your father's son after all."
Iman seconded. "You should have seen his eyes light up like a madman. I have seen courage, but it was my first time seeing that kind of fire. Fearless. Reckless. And ready to give it all."
Murmurs of praise followed. Amen offered a faint smile but didn't speak. The weight of the battle, the sacrifice, and Khay's end still sat heavy in his chest.
The Pharaoh rose and lifted his cup.
"People of Egypt! Tonight, we do not feast in extravagance, but in remembrance. Let it be known that my son, Amen, has returned not only to me, but to all of Kemet. He trembled in fear, but he fought to the end. He bled for you. For Egypt. For the legacy we must preserve."
The hall erupted in cheers. Some genuine, others cautious, but no longer silent.
Amen scanned the hall, at the faces of warriors, advisors, and servants. Not all believed in him. Not yet.
As the feast continued, Amen leaned toward his father. "They don't all trust me yet," he said quietly. "Some still look at me like an impostor."
Horemheb nodded. "They will. Trust is not given by blood. It's earned with scars. And you, my son, are beginning to wear them well."
As the feast continued, Amen excused himself. His father nodded and carried on talking with the nobles and generals around him.
The balcony was quiet, bathed in the pale glow of moonlight. Below, the city murmured in its sleep. Torches flickered on distant streets, and faint echoes of laughter from within the houses. Amen stood alone, the wine untouched in his hand, his mind still caught in the screams and fire of the battlefield.
"You wear your father's name well," came a voice. Low, smooth, and soaked in familiarity.
Amen froze.
His breath hitched, heart thudding as he slowly turned. From the shadows of the stone column stepped a man in a long, dark cloak. His face was half-covered by a hood, but the grin beneath it was visible. Confident. Taunting.
Amen's hand instinctively reached for the dagger at his waist. "Who are you? Show yourself!"
The man chuckled. "Still so quick to bare steel. Some things don't change."
Amen's eyes narrowed. His grip tightened.
"I know that voice," he said through gritted teeth. "I know you."
He remembered it in flashes. In the dim corners of his childhood apartment, beneath bedsheets shaped like tents, echoing in the small playground where no one else seemed to see his friend. He remembered a man... strange, with piercing eyes and stories that sounded too real for a child to know.
"Tef… Tefnahkt?" Amen's voice faltered.
The man stepped forward, lowering his hood just enough for the moonlight to reveal his face. Pale skin that didn't belong in Egypt. Eyes like silver glass. A smile that hadn't aged a day.
"You remember me," he said, almost wistful. "Your mother said I wasn't real. That I was something you made up to cope."
"I—I thought you were…" Amen stared, his pulse quickening. "You just vanished. You left me. I thought you were never real!"
Tefnahkt's smile darkened. "They all thought that. But I was always real, Amen. Just… not meant for your world. Not until now."
Amen stepped back, his thoughts racing. "What are you? Why now? Why here?"
"Because," Tefnahkt said, stepping closer, his cloak barely making a sound, "this land, this throne, this bloodline… they are all threads tied to something greater. And you, my old friend, are tangled in it now. You're no longer hiding in a rented apartment, are you? You're a prince. A warrior. A symbol."
Amen's voice was barely a whisper. "And you? What are you to me now?"
Tefnahkt's expression softened, just for a moment. "The same as I always was. A guide. A shadow. A reminder that not everything from your past was a lie."
He turned, his cloak billowing behind him. "I'll return when the time is right. But remember, Amen, the gods may have plans for you… But so do older things. Much older."
And before Amen could speak again, Tefnahkt stepped into the shadows and was gone.
Amen was left confused.
Was this another product of his imagination, or was it real this time?
As he gazed at the starry night sky, his mind wandered into his past.
The sun filtered through the blinds of a modest suburban bedroom, dust dancing in the morning light.
Five-year-old Amen sat cross-legged on the carpet, surrounded by second-hand toy soldiers and a half-finished drawing of a pyramid. He pressed the crayon harder, trying to remember the shape of something he swore he'd never seen. A tall gate, covered in strange symbols. The more he drew, the more frustrated he became.
"That's not how it looked."
Amen turned. The voice had come from behind him, soft but certain.
There, standing by the doorway, was a boy about his age. Barefoot, dark-skinned, with strange, intense amber eyes that never seemed to blink. He wore a faded hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, though his presence felt… ancient. Like he didn't belong in this world, or maybe he belonged in every world.
"Tef?" Amen whispered.
The boy grinned. "You remember."
"Where did you go? I haven't seen you since... since I...hmm, I was this big."
"You stopped needing me," Tefnahkt said simply, stepping into the room and sitting beside him. "But I never left."
Amen looked at him sideways. "My mom says you're imaginary."
Tefnahkt laughed. "That's because grown-ups don't see the truth unless it's printed on paper or screamed on TV."
"Are you real?" Amen asked.
"Would you believe me if I said yes?"
Amen didn't answer. He just went back to drawing, but this time with a little more confidence. "I've been having weird dreams," he murmured. "About a place I don't know, but it feels like I do."
Tefnahkt nodded. "That's where you come from."
"I live here."
"For now."
Amen looked at him again. "What does that mean?"
Tefnahkt leaned in close, his expression serious for the first time. "You were born in two worlds. This one and another. You'll go back when the time comes. But you won't remember this part. Not until you need to."
The boy shivered. "Are you like a guardian angel? Alien?"
Tefnahkt's eyes sparkled. "Something like that."
There was a long silence as the two boys sat there. Outside, a dog barked. A siren wailed in the distance. Just another Saturday in a normal city, in a normal year. Except for Amen, for him, nothing had ever felt normal. Not really.
"Will you be there?" Amen asked quietly.
"When you need me most," Tefnahkt replied.
And just like that, he was gone.
No door opened. No footsteps. Amen sat alone again, half-thinking he'd imagined it. But when he looked at his paper, the pyramid was complete, perfectly drawn, with a small figure standing at the gate. A boy. Watching. Waiting.
Years would pass. Amen would grow. Move. Forget.
Until a fateful night. Amen sat in the corner of his room, face buried in his knees, shoulders trembling. The light from the window stretched across the floor, touching the torn edges of a paper. The paper that had once held his careful crayon drawing of a pyramid. All that remained were jagged edges and a faint smudge of sand-colored wax.
The door creaked, but no footsteps followed.
"Amen?" came the familiar voice.
Amen sniffled, not lifting his head.
Tefnahkt stepped out from behind the curtain like a shadow given shape. He walked over and crouched beside him. "What happened?"
Amen's voice was small, choked. "She ripped it."
"Who?"
"My mom." He rubbed his eyes angrily. "She got mad. Said I was being weird again. Said I needed to stop drawing those… pyramids and 'imaginary kingdoms.' She took my crayons. Said if I didn't stop, she'd take away my books too."
Tefnahkt glanced at the torn paper on the floor, then back at Amen. "Why would she do that?"
"She thinks I'm broken," Amen mumbled. "That there's something wrong with me. That I live in some made-up world and not… here."
Tefnahkt was quiet for a moment. Then he said softly, "Maybe she's scared."
Amen blinked. "Scared?"
Tefnahkt nodded. "Of what you remember. Even if you don't know it yet."
"But I don't remember anything," Amen said. "It's just stuff in my head. I just drew it. I don't know why."
"Not yet. But one day you will."
Amen looked at him now, finally raising his head. "Is there something wrong with me?"
Tefnahkt smiled, a warm, gentle thing. "No. There's something very right with you. You just don't fit in a small box. People get angry at what they don't understand."
He looked around the room. "This place," he said, gesturing to the walls and ceiling, "it's too small for what's inside you."
"But what if I forget?" Amen whispered.
"You will," Tefnahkt said simply. "And then you'll remember. When you're ready."
They sat in silence for a while. Then Tefnahkt reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny bundle wrapped in cloth. "I brought you these."
Amen unwrapped it carefully. Inside were five stubby crayons, worn, used, but still usable. Red, blue, sand-yellow, black, and gold.
"They're not as many," Tefnahkt said. "But they're enough to start again."
Amen looked at him, eyes wide. "Where'd you get these?"
Tefnahkt grinned. "Let's just say I know where to find things."
Amen clutched the bundle to his chest. For the first time that day, he smiled.
"Will you stay?" he asked.
"For now," Tefnahkt said. "Until you don't need me again."
Then, without another word, he sat beside Amen and watched him draw again a pyramid rising from the sand, sharper this time, clearer. A memory in the making.