Shawn shook his head, still reeling.
"No… I... I can't be who you say I am. I don't know anything about this place. Well, I've taught a bit of Egyptian history. Still, I'm just… I'm just me."
The Pharaoh's eyes glimmered beneath the golden crown. Unwavering. Steady. "You may not know yet, Amen. But you will. The blood in your veins remembers. Your soul remembers."
He swallowed hard, gaze darting around the vast chamber. The weight of the Pharaoh's gaze was almost unbearable. Too pressing. Or oppressing?
Leaning forward on his throne, the Pharaoh spoke with gentleness.
"I called you here across time itself because the sands stir once again. Enemies plot within my own tombs. The gods whisper warnings. And only you, child of my blood, can right what has been twisted."
Shawn clenched his fists. "But… how am I supposed to fight anything? I don't even know how I got here."
The Pharaoh stood. His robes flew like a river of linen and gold. The entire hall seemed to hold its breath.
"You will not do it alone," the Pharaoh said, descending the steps from the throne. "The gods have left tools in your path. And you are not the first who was called. Many before you failed. But I believe… you will not."
He reached into the folds of his robe and produced an amulet. An intricate piece shaped like the Eye of Horus, shimmering with an otherworldly light. He took Shawn's shaking hand and pressed it into his palm.
The moment their hands touched, a jolt ran up his arm, burning but not painful, like fire and lightning intertwined. His breath hitched as the amulet glowed, pulsating steady and alive.
"This will guide you," the Pharaoh said. "When the shadows creep. When the betrayals unfold. When even your own mind turns against you."
Shawn stared down at it. It felt warm. Heavy. Real.
"But what if I fail?" he whispered.
The Pharaoh's lips quirked into a faint, bittersweet smile. "Then the sands will reclaim all Egypt, like it has never existed before."
The weight of those words settled in Amen's chest. For a moment, he was tempted to slap his face so that he might wake up from this dream.
Before he could speak, a horn blared outside the palace walls, sharp and urgent.
The Pharaoh's smile faded as he turned toward the grand entrance.
"They come sooner than expected," he sighed heavily. "Ptahmes' descendants made their first move."
He turned to Shawn with quiet determination. "Seems fate does not wait for your readiness, my son."
From a distance, riders, crimson like ants, were slowly approaching the city gates. Dust lifted like clouds on their wake.
A warrior came in, panting as if he had just finished a marathon. Sweat dripped from his face, soaking his tunic.
"Great Pharaoh, five hundred men are reported advancing, including archers. We need to do something," he reported.
Panic swept the room. The hustle and bustle halted. Servants shared looks.
The pharaoh narrowed his eyes at his warrior. Then, his crisp laughter echoed in the great hall.
"Tell me, warrior. Are you prepared to die?" It's a statement more than a question.
The warrior kept kneeling, afraid to raise his head. Sweat started to form on his brow.
"Leave us!" The Pharaoh roared. Servants scattered. Rushing towards the towering door.
"Five hundred," Shawn whispers in fear. Loud enough to reach the Pharaoh's ears.
The Pharaoh grabbed Shawn's shoulder with warmth and firmness, forcing him to look at his eyes.
"You're afraid," he smiled. "As you should. Fear is a good thing, a reminder of your mortality. But, let it not weaken you."
Shawn closed his hand around the amulet. So tight that his fingers choked its light.
"What do I need to do?" he asked, his voice quieter than he intended, but steady.
"You stand beside me. For now." He turned to his guards. "Leave."
He rested a hand on Amen's shoulder, heavy and warm.
"Come, son of Horemheb. Let me show you the land you were born to protect."
And together, they strode toward the palace gates. They walked past adorned columns glowing under the warm sunlight cast by the rising sun.
Shawn kept looking at the horizon. His heart pounding with every step.
"Who are they?" He asked quietly.
"Loyalists to Ptahmes' line," the Pharaoh replied. "Merchants, warlords, priests who swore to my brother's ambitions. For years they've settled quietly in Amarna as they waited for this time."
Shawn's mouth felt dry. "Do they know I'm here?"
The Pharaoh gave a faint, thoughtful smile. "Not yet. But they will."
A captain approached, bowing low. "My Pharaoh. Scouts report that they demand an audience at the gates."
The Pharaoh's gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "They come not to parley, but to threaten." He turned to the captain. "Prepare a delegation. I will meet them at the gates, but no further. And have the inner guard ready in case they attempt treachery."
The captain saluted and left swiftly.
The Pharaoh turned to Shawn, studying him for a long moment. "You will stand beside me," he said. "You will watch. And you will listen. For these men, these rebels… they are the same kind of men who conspired against me in life. And they will test you."
Shawn hesitated. "I don't know the laws here. I don't know the politics. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I make things worse?"
The Pharaoh's expression softened. "Then you learn."
They descended the steps of the palace side by side, their shadows stretching long across the courtyard.
The usual happy tune of the city changed into tense melodies. Merchants shuttering their stalls. Mothers gathering children indoors. Guards assembling into disciplined ranks.
As they approached the main gates, Amen could see the delegation of riders waiting beyond the walls. Their leader sat tall atop a black horse, wrapped in crimson robes, a golden circlet gleaming on his brow. His face was lean, hard, scarred by battle and sun. His eyes locked on the Pharaoh with a look that was neither respect nor fear.
The gates creaked open. The Pharaoh stepped forward, flanked by his captains and Shawn, standing awkwardly at his side.
The rebel leader spoke first, his voice sharp, carried by the desert wind.
"Horemheb," he called, a mocking lilt in his tone. His gaze flicked briefly to Shawn. "Is this boy your offering of peace?"
The Pharaoh remained unreadable. "Speak your demands, Khay," he said. "You didn't ride with banners and blades for empty words."
Khay smiled, a slow, predatory smile. "You know why I'm here, old friend. The temples grow restless. The people whisper of famine. A curse is spreading in the South, decimating the population. We've had enough!"
Khay leaned forward on his saddle.
"Step down, Horemheb. Let Egypt prosper. Unless you want her succumb to your selfishness."
Shawn felt the tension vibrate through the soldiers around him. The Pharaoh didn't move. His voice remained calm, but iron-strong.
"Egypt does not belong to one hand, Khay," he said. "It belongs to Ma'at, the balance of the world. And balance does not yield to ambition."
Khay's sharp eyes narrowed. His lips curled into a sneer as he looked Shawn up and down, lingering disdainfully on the mismatched royal garments that didn't quite fit the man within.
"And who is this?" Khay's asked. Condescending. "A foreign boy? Dragged in from the streets, no doubt. Is Egypt's royal house so desperate it now recruits wanderers and sells them dreams of nobility?"
A low murmur and controlled laughter snaked through the enemies.
Shawn's jaw tightened. He opened his mouth to respond, but the Pharaoh raised a hand.
"Ah, Khay," the Pharaoh said lightly, almost playfully. He stepped forward, placing a firm, reassuring hand on Shawn's shoulder, guiding him farther so all could see. "Your eyes see much, but they do not see everything."
The Pharaoh laughed. A deep, resonant sound rippled. "Allow me to correct your ignorance." He leaned in slightly, his smile widening. "You stand before Amen, son of Horemheb. My son."
"Impossible," Khay thought. "I know Horemheb. He had no heir. I—"
The Pharaoh's gaze sharpened, though his tone remained almost amused. "Ah, I thought you were wiser, Khay."
He turned his horse sharply. "You are a fool, Horemheb. And now your son will pay the price for your stubbornness."
He raised his arm, and his riders wheeled around, galloping back into the desert, their banners snapping like flames.
The gates closed behind them with a deep, heavy thud.
The Pharaoh's expression was unreadable. "He will return," he said quietly. "With more men. More weapons."
Shawn swallowed hard, his mind spinning with the weight of what lay ahead.
He tightened his grip around the amulet in his hand.
"I'm not ready," he admitted.
The Pharaoh nodded once, gravely. "No one ever is."
And together, they turned back toward the palace, the setting sun casting long, ominous shadows across the walls of a kingdom trembling on the edge of upheaval.
As they re-entered the palace, the Pharaoh gave a sharp nod to a waiting servant. "Take him to the royal chambers," he commanded. "Clothe him as befits his station."
The servant, a slender man with sharp eyes and the posture of someone used to obedience, bowed low. "At once, my Pharaoh."
The Pharaoh looked at Shawn. "No son of mine will stand before gods and men in rags. Go. You will return to me when you are ready."
Shawn hesitated, glancing down at his sweat-soaked pajamas, still clinging damply to his skin. The absurdity of it hit him again. A history teacher in threadbare clothes, suddenly the heir to a throne. But there was no mocking laughter in the Pharaoh's eyes. Only expectation.
The servant guided him through winding corridors, up marble steps worn smooth by generations of feet. The palace interior shifted from stone austerity to vibrant splendor, walls painted with stories of gods and kings, gilded columns catching the flickering torchlight, faint traces of incense in the air.
Finally, they reached a grand chamber. Sunlight poured through latticed windows, illuminating a carved wooden bed piled with silk cushions, bronze mirrors polished to gleaming perfection, and chests overflowing with fine linen and gold jewelry.
A group of attendants awaited him. Women bearing perfumes and oils, men holding folded garments and gleaming adornments. They bowed in unison.
"Shall we begin, my lord?" one of the women asked, her voice melodic, reverent.
Shawn's throat tightened. "I… uh… sure."
The transformation began swiftly. His old clothes were taken, folded away with delicate care as though they carried some hidden importance. Warm water was brought, and his skin scrubbed clean of dust and sweat. His hair was combed, oiled lightly with frankincense.
When they finally dressed him, it was in layers of fine white linen, pleated and wrapped with practiced ease. A broad jeweled collar was fastened around his neck, shimmering blues and reds catching the light. Gold armbands slid over his biceps. Sandals of soft leather replaced his worn slippers.
One attendant stepped forward with a ceremonial belt, embroidered with symbols he recognized faintly from museum displays—ankh, scarab, falcon.
Another held out a golden circlet. "The diadem of the prince," she murmured. "May it sit lightly upon you."
As they placed it upon his brow, Shawn caught his reflection in the bronze mirror. For a moment, he didn't recognize himself.
Gone was the tired, underpaid teacher. Standing in his place was a figure out of a forgotten fresco, clad in royalty, yet wearing uncertainty in his eyes.
The servant from before approached again, bowing low. "His Majesty awaits you in the council chamber, my prince."
My prince!
Shawn stared at himself one last moment, then squared his shoulders. "Okay," he whispered. "Let's do this."
He followed the servant back through the palace, each step echoing louder in his mind. As they neared the great council hall, the distant murmur of voices grew clearer. Arguments, plans, and tension hang in the air.
When the doors opened, the assembled nobles turned, their conversations halting at the sight of him.
The Pharaoh sat at the head of a long table, his gaze settling proudly on Shawn. "Come, my son," he called. "Sit beside me."
And as Shawn crossed the threshold, dressed in the garb of royalty, he knew that from then on, he would bear the name Amen and the responsibilities that came with it.