[1258 B.C.]
Twenty years.
That's how long it took for the dust of war to finally settle and for the vision of a new world — of dreams — to rise from stone, steel, and silence.
After peace was sealed in blood by Ramesses II and — perhaps also in peace now, though I'm not so sure — Muwatalli, what surprises me most (and I do mean surprise in the truest sense) is that I remained. Not out of vanity, and certainly not out of attachment to the land of Egypt, but because of a sense of duty I couldn't ignore. The people needed more than treaties — they needed hope. And perhaps this sounds like a contradiction, but I felt connected — again, not out of pride, but to the people themselves.
This place was remarkable. I had endured so much along the Nile — from brutal battles and massacres to heartbreak, both metaphorically and, at times, quite literally.
North of Pi-Ramesses, where the winds blew like whispered prayers, I continued to raise the city that had lived in my visions for centuries: Neberu — the City of Dreams Beyond. I plan to gather my soldiers there, my future legions.
Its gates guarded more than marble and steel — they guarded an ideal.
To the people, I was more than a king. I was a living deity — heir to both sky and earth. A god incarnate walking among mortals. My guardians — the Shadow Guard — were seen as demigods, born of thunder, shadow, and time itself.
In Neberu, knowledge blossomed. That had always been my central goal.
Its towers were carved with mathematical precision, aligned with the stars, able to predict eclipses and harvest cycles. Underground aqueducts brought water from distant springs, while a system of bronze reflectors illuminated the inner halls with nothing but sunlight. With foresight from the future, the city developed in a way no other city in the world ever had.
Healers created salves from honey and myrrh that could heal wounds in just days — primitive by modern standards, perhaps, but desperately needed. Medicine here became a fusion of Egyptian, Hittite, and even distant Mesopotamian practices — and above all, knowledge from the future. A new science of the body was born here — the early dawn of modern medicine.
In collaboration with Pi-Ramesses, we founded schools where scribes translated and copied ancient manuscripts, blending cuneiform, hieroglyphs, and proto-Greek. Alongside that, philosophical and mathematical principles — concepts once thought to originate in Greece or France — were now being taught here, centuries ahead of their time. That's not to say I won't still pursue the great minds of the ages. But science, as a whole, was flourishing in my realm — and it would flourish even more.
Trade followed naturally. Neberu's markets bustled with amber from the north, olive oil from Crete, papyrus from the south, and tin from Ugarit.
As for Ramesses:
I saw him step down from his throne to walk among the poor of Pi-Ramesses, handing out grain instead of orders. I saw him quiet the steel to listen to the wind — as if the land itself was whispering secrets he'd never heard while he was merely a man.
And as I traveled to his lands, to the heart of Egypt, I noticed that gold no longer dazzled his eyes. What fascinated him now was time —
Time… and its end.
That brings me back to the conversation we had the day I transformed him.
Some years ago — more precisely, five years ago:
[1263 B.C.]
"Lord Morpheus, you do not age," he told me one night, beneath the shadows of the obelisks. "You do not fall ill, nor do you fear death."
"I know her," I replied. "But I do not carry her."
He fell silent after my answer. His eyes, once stormy, became still lakes.
A moment later, he made me a request—not as a king, but as a man:
"I want to live beyond the ages. Not to rule, I swear, but to preserve. If you are the key, then do not deny me what you have already granted so many."
Hesitation seared through me for an instant, but Ramesses was one of humanity's greats. To turn a pharaoh was more than an act of blood—it was a rupture in destiny.
But I did it. Because it aligned with my goal of building the most powerful Coven in history—even stronger than the Volturi, the Egyptians, the Romanians, and even more formidable than the Coven of the Ancients: Zuberi, We Hao, and Eirikr.
After his transformation, my power over Egypt grew even greater. And inevitably, the Egyptian Coven was no more—either they became my subordinates, like Amun, or they were slain by my guard and me.
After that period, I focused on forging an even stronger guard, especially since, during my battle with the First Hunger, some of my soldiers had fallen—Numbers 09, 07, and 01. At first, the numbers held no rank; they were assigned randomly. But over time, they came to signify strength, as I began holding internal vampire tournaments—much like I did with the youth. The winners earned the lowest numbers. Unsurprisingly—to anyone—Abenadiel changed his number and became Number 01. His brother, Amenadiel, is Number 10—but his power lies not only in brute force or combat, but in his mind.
As part of my plan to build a stronger guard, I turned my orphanages into a public policy throughout Egypt—in every city, from the Nile Valley to Neberu, Pi-Ramesses, and countless others. They came to be known as the Houses of Beginning, where we welcomed children orphaned by war, plague, or neglect. There, we taught languages, mathematics, music, and strategy—and, above all, combat.
When they reached adolescence, they could choose to remain free citizens or enter the Shadow Guard selection trials—an ancient form of civil service exam, similar to those that had existed in China four thousand years prior. In the end, everyone wanted to join the sacred army that guarded the borders of Neberu. But entry was extremely difficult. They had to train not only in warfare, but also in ethics, rhetoric, contemplation, and possess unwavering loyalty. The rigor of it all meant only one out of every thousand orphans made it into the Guard.
It was said that a Guard warrior could pass through the night unseen and move stones by sheer willpower—and the people believed it. Even children who weren't orphans longed to be part of it, but I placed strict limits on their eligibility.
When the pillars of Neberu stood firm, I knew my time there had come to an end.
Before I departed, I left Ramesses and Amun in charge of Upper Egypt—especially my beloved Neberu, with its restored temples and unspoken vows.
My destiny now led to Sparta.
But the road first took me to Moab, where the sky bows before the mountains and the earth whispers forgotten names.
As I passed by Mount Nebo, I encountered someone I never thought I'd see in all my days on Earth—not before arriving here, and certainly not then, for I was a young atheist at the time.
I encountered none other than Moses himself.
He was old, but whole. His eyes weren't those of a defeated man—they were the eyes of a prophet at peace.
When he saw me, he whispered:
"The Lord will not take me yet… not while the desert's curse still haunts the people."
At first, I didn't understand what he meant. Still, his words stirred something in me—curiosity, maybe—and that's exactly why I drew closer. As I neared the old man, who looked to be on death's doorstep, I heard him murmur:
"I knew you would come, Morpheus. The winds told me."
The sound of my name in his mouth made me shiver. Instinctively, I raised my guard, bracing for a fight. In my mind, this journey was supposed to be uneventful—hence, I traveled alone. But in that moment, unease crept in. He looked like nothing more than a fragile old man… yet in this twilight world, shadows and suspicion still roam freely.
Even caught off guard, I asked with steady resolve:
"Who are you… and how do you know my name?"
The old man smiled, a sorrowful smile, like someone burdened by centuries, and replied with a voice raspy, but calm:
"I'm just a man marked by his own mistakes… A wanderer through the sands of time. Some call me a prophet, others a madman. Truth be told, I'd rather you call me simply Moses. I'm not worthy of the name I bear. I was no guide, no light… only stumbles and visions no one wanted to hear."
His words threw me. For a fleeting second, I wondered if I was face to face with the Moses from scripture—the man of the Exodus, the leader. But the figure before me was too frail, too human… and yet, there was something in him that defied logic. An ancient weight, as if his soul had crossed deserts that even time dared not name.
He continued, unprompted:
"I knew you would come, Morpheus. Not by chance… The visions have followed me since youth. They come like gusts in the sand, whispers on the desert wind. For a long time, I ignored those voices, trying to live as an ordinary man. But today… today was different."
He paused, gazing at the dusty horizon with eyes moist from time and despair.
"Tonight's vision was clearer than ever. I saw you coming… I saw your footsteps crossing this forgotten land. And I understood it was my last chance. The last, before death—which has been circling me for days—finally claims me. If you hadn't come today, there'd be no tomorrow for me."
That revelation left me speechless. The very idea that fate had led me there—not by my will, but by some ancient force—sent a chill through me. The shadow of that encounter reached far beyond logic.
We sat together before the world, under the heavy dusk sky. He spoke of his pain, of a youth marked by visions, of how faith had turned to doubt and loneliness had become his home. Finally, with his eyes closed and a sigh of relief, he made a request:
"Take me with you, Morpheus. Not to live longer… but to see further. Let my eyes find meaning before they close forever."
And so it was. A strange meeting, senseless in many ways.
And even without fully understanding, I transformed Moses. He became the Shepherd of Ash, a man between worlds, able to hear the voices of time and guide the lost. Strangely enough, after a few days traveling alongside Moses, his supernatural powers grew much stronger. What were once fleeting, uncontrolled visions became steady—and entirely within his command. He could see, without pause, up to five days into the future, and if he focused on someone in particular, he could see even farther. Perhaps, in time, he'd see years ahead.
All of this—about Neberu, Ramesses, and Moses—runs through my mind as I travel to Sparta. And something makes me stop thinking for a moment, because it's a city I haven't seen in over ten years—not since I left my homeland, journeying to Egypt with Kéfera and Amun.
Sparta rises on the horizon—made of memories and worn stone.
The gates, still imposing, opened as if they'd been waiting for me since the dawn of the world.
Aro walked beneath the twilight, his eyes locked on mine.
Sulpicia stood with the grace of an ancient queen.
And Didyme… oh, she embraced me like someone who's just reunited with their destiny.
"Thirty years," Aro said, his voice forged of wind and steel. "And you haven't changed."
"No," I replied. "I carry worlds inside me. And I need to tell you everything."
The torches lit themselves.
The world held its breath.
And so, the return began.
To be continued…
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[N/A] If you've read this far, thank you! And since I'm terrible at handling compliments, please, insult me instead!