The Pharaoh's Librarian
Chapter 1 – The Awakening of Dust and Flame
The tomb wasn't supposed to open yet.
Dr. Layla Bent down low inside the excavation shaft, sweat dripping on her skin, Her fingers brushed against sandstone slick with centuries of silence. It was nearly midnight, and the Egyptian desert was still breathing heat through the rocks. The only sound was her own heartbeat, and the soft scratching of her brush clearing away something—
No. Not something.
A cartouche(scroll). One she'd never seen before.
> ♰ 🕶 ♛ 🏟🌳
The symbols danced beneath her headlamp, unfamiliar even to her expert eyes. This wasn't on any of the ancient dynastic records. It didn't match the dynasty this tomb belonged to.
She leaned closer, her breath catching in her throat. "Impossible," she whispered, reaching for her phone to take a photo. The moment she touched the cartouche, the wall shuddered.
Stone groaned. The shaft shook. Her phone slipped from her hand and shattered.
"No, no, no—"
The floor opened beneath her like a pit , and the world collapsed.
---
When she opened her eyes, the first thing she noticed was the ceiling.
It was tall. Gold-trimmed. Painted. Alive.
Images of stars, lotus flowers, and sun gods swirled in colors too vivid to be centuries old. A scent of honeyed oils and burning myrrh filled the air.
And voices. Hushed. Urgent.
> "What do we do? She emerged from the sacred wall—"
"The High Priestess must be summoned. Now."
Layla tried to sit up, but her body felt heavy, as if she were wrapped in linens. Her clothes were gone—replaced by a sheer white linen robe wrapped loosely around her curves, damp with some sort of perfumed oil.
> What the hell is this? Where am I?
Her vision cleared just enough to see the faces around her. Men in Skirts with neat, pressed folds, Women in draped silk. Painted eyes. Gold collars. Smooth brown skin glistening in the torchlight.
One woman dropped to her knees, eyes wide in awe. "She wears the mark of Thoth," she whispered. "She is not of this world."
The others backed away, bowing.
And then—he entered.
---
The air shifted as the guards pushed open the doors of the chamber. The man who walked in was young—no older than twenty-two—but he moved with the aura of someone used to being obeyed.
Pharaoh Amun-Ka.
Layla didn't know how she knew that. But as her eyes met his—dark, piercing, and lined with ancient dark eyeliner—something ancient stirred in her.
He wore a gold crown decorated with blue sapphire gems. A panther-skin cloak draped over his bare chest. Muscles lean, lips full, eyes both calculating and oddly… curious.
He approached without fear "You are not a gift from my gods," he said in a smooth voice. "But you are a gift nonetheless."
Layla opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught. English wouldn't come. Arabic wouldn't come. Only a strange, flowing tongue spilled from her lips.
.
The people writing gasped in surprise.
"She speaks the old tongue," one whispered.
Pharaoh Amun-Ka Bent down beside her, brushing a lock of wet hair from her cheek. His fingers were cool. Possessive.
> "You will tell me who sent you," he murmured. "And why you carry the mark of Thoth, written in a form no scribe alive remembers."
Layla stared at him, struggling to think, to breathe, to wake up—because that's all this was, right? A heatstroke dream? A hallucination? She was back in the tomb, passed out from dehydration—
> "Bring her to the Upper Chamber," the Pharaoh ordered. "She will serve as Royal Librarian, until the gods explain her purpose."
---
The halls of the palace glowed with amber light as guards escorted her through corridors of painted stone and silk curtains. Layla's robe clung to her with each step, transparent under the flicker of torches.
The palace was alive. Not ruins. Not history. This was An ancient Egyptian city—bustling, humid, elegant, and dangerous.
People bowed. Some stared. Some looked away. But all whispered.
> The woman from the sacred wall…
She was escorted to a chamber lined with scrolls. Papyrus shelves. Wooden drawers labeled in ink. A table covered in pen-like tools made from bird feathers , clay tablets, and fresh ink.
And standing in the corner, a tall woman in a white headdress watched her silently.
"Who are you really?" she asked at last. Her voice was low, but powerful.
"My name is Layla," she said hoarsely, realizing too late she'd spoken in perfect Middle Egyptian.
The woman's eyes narrowed.
"I am Neferu. High Priestess of Isis. If you lie to the Pharaoh, your heart will be devoured by Ammut before the sun sets."
Layla stared at her.
"I'm not lying," she said softly. "I… I don't think I belong here."
Neferu said nothing for a long moment. Then: "You will learn. Or be unmade."
She turned to leave.
"Oh, and one more thing," Neferu added, her voice like a blade. "The last Librarian died from poison—after he tried to uncover secrets meant only for the gods. Perhaps you'll have better luck."
---
When night came, Layla sat alone in the scribe's chamber. Her fingers trembled as she touched one of the ancient scrolls.
A single word burned across the top: Heka. Magic.
This isn't just the past. This place… is alive with something else. Something divine.
A breeze passed through the open window, carrying with it the faint sound of music and something darker.
And from the shadows, a voice she recognized whispered near her ear.
"You don't belong here, Librarian. And the gods won't forgive your intrusion."