The desert was merciless.
Waves of heat rippled over the endless dunes as the sun blazed like a god watching from above. Chaya's body lay still, half-buried beneath the golden sand, her hair tangled and skin dusted in grit. She looked like a statue carved from marble—eerily still, heartbreakingly alone.
A caravan moved across the horizon, fine silk banners fluttering, the crests of nobility emblazoned on its sides. Camels, horses, guards—this was no ordinary desert journey. It was the royal escort of Lord Menkara, one of the wealthiest nobles in all of Lower Egypt. A man of status, with land that kissed the Nile and gold that filled entire chambers.
He wasn't supposed to stop.
But something pulled him.
"Over there!" shouted one of the guards. "There's someone in the sand!"
Lord Menkara halted, shielding his eyes against the light. As they approached the still figure, his breath caught. She wasn't dressed like any woman of the land. Her tunic was strange. Her arms bore no jewelry. But her face—it reminded him of his lost daughter, Samira, who had died years ago in a sandstorm.
The woman stirred. Barely.
"Take her," Lord Menkara commanded. "Gently. We bring her home."
When Chaya awoke, it was to a bed draped in linen and shadows. Fragrant oils filled the air. A gentle breeze cooled her fevered skin. She blinked up at an unfamiliar ceiling. For a moment, she thought it was a dream. But then the strange language returned—the bustling sound of servants speaking in dialects that were no longer dead.
Egypt.
She sat up slowly, confused and aching. Her memories of her dreams were gone. She didn't remember Thutmose, or the nights of burning passion. She didn't remember standing at the edge of time with an amulet in her palm. All she remembered… were the history books. The tales.
Of a great Pharaoh.Who ruled Egypt with power and grace.Who had one hundred wives, yet was undone by love.A betrayal. A fall.A mystery lost to time.
She knew his name.
Thutmose.
But in her mind, he was nothing more than a tragic legend from a history lesson. Nothing that explained why she was now breathing in ancient air or lying in a bed in a palace gilded with lapis and ivory.
The door creaked open.
An elegant woman stepped in, robed in white and gold, with kind eyes and a warm smile. "You are awake," she said softly in perfect Egyptian. "Praise the gods."
"I… where am I?" Chaya asked, her voice hoarse.
"You are safe," the woman replied. "My name is Lady Netira. My husband is Lord Menkara. We found you in the desert. You were alone. Unconscious. The gods must have sent you to us."
Chaya blinked. "Why would they do that?"
The woman paused before answering. "Because you remind us of someone we loved very dearly. Our daughter. She died years ago. But when my husband saw you… he wept. He said the gods returned her in another form."
Lady Netira stepped closer, brushing Chaya's hair back gently. "We don't know who you are, or where you came from. But if you'll let us… we would like to call you our own. You can stay here. Be our daughter."
Emotion swelled in Chaya's chest. She felt the familiar ache of longing—her family, her home, her world. But also confusion. Why was she here? What force had pulled her across time again?
She swallowed hard. "I don't remember anything."
"Then let us help you remember who you can be," Lady Netira whispered.
In the weeks that followed, Chaya—now known as Naiya, the adopted daughter of the noble Menkara house—was bathed in opulence. She wore gowns of shimmering linen and gold-threaded sashes. She learned to walk with grace, to speak with the authority of a noble's daughter. She dined with priests and scribes, visited temples, and even caught whispers of the royal family.
It was at one of these events that she first heard the name again—Thutmose.
But this time, he was no king.
"He is a prince," murmured a handmaiden as they fanned her under a pavilion. "A lion among men. Proud, fierce. But difficult to please."
"They say he will become the greatest Pharaoh Egypt has ever seen," added another.
"They say he already has one wife. Soon to be more."
Chaya felt a strange chill run down her spine.
Why did his name feel like a wound that hadn't yet healed?
That night, she stood alone on the palace balcony, watching the stars shimmer above the black Nile. The warm air kissed her skin. Somewhere in the distance, music played—harps and drums, the rhythm of a land that danced with the gods.
She didn't understand it yet.
But fate had brought her back.
Not to witness the legend of Thutmose.
But to be part of it.