CHAPTER 3
The high priest’s voice lingered in the cavernous room like the hiss of a desert viper. The test that cannot be faked by the bloodline of Ra.
I kept my forehead pressed against the polished limestone, my tears mixing with the dust that Commander Haremhab had kicked into my face just moments prior. My ribcage throbbed where his heavy bronze-toed boot had struck me, a brutal reminder of how easily the powerful could crush the weak in the land of the Pharaoh. I was just a twelve-year-old boy from the riverbank slums, a child who had known nothing but hunger, the smell of rotting straw, and the agonizing sight of a mother fading away from a relentless desert fever.
Yet here I was, kneeling on a floor fit for gods, while the absolute ruler of Egypt knelt before me, his hands shaking as he held the heavy gold scarab coin that had tumbled from my torn rags.
“What test, High Priest?” Pharaoh Amenemhat asked, his voice losing its thunder, replaced by a raw, fragile vulnerability. He did not break his gaze from my face, his eyes tracing the jagged, ancient scar shaped like the Eye of Horus beneath my hairline. “He carries the mark. He carries the Queen’s token. Look at his eyes—they are the color of the deep Nile before the harvest. The color of Nefertari’s eyes.”
Commander Haremhab stepped forward, the metal plates of his bronze armor clattering loudly in the absolute silence of the throne hall. His face was flushed, a beads of sweat rolling down his thick neck. The smug, arrogant grin he had worn while dragging me up the palace steps was completely gone, replaced by a desperate, frantic energy.
“Your Majesty, I beg you to listen to the holy priest!” Haremhab shouted, his voice cracking as he tried to project authority. “This is an elaborate trick! The slums of Memphis are filled with opportunistic thieves and wretched actors. This boy’s mother is undoubtedly a disgraced servant who stole the royal nursery token during the great fire twelve years ago. She branded her own child with a hot iron to prepare for this very day! It is treason of the highest order! Let me take the boy to the courtyard execution block right now. I will purge this lie from your court before it defiles the memory of the lost prince any further!”
Haremhab reached down, his massive, scarred hand gripping the hilt of his heavy bronze khopesh sword. He stepped toward me, his shadow falling over my small, trembling frame. I flinched, pulling my torn linen tunic tightly around my chest, awaiting the strike.
“Step back, Commander,” the Pharaoh rumbled, his voice dropping into a register that made the heavy cedar doors of the palace seem to vibrate.
Haremhab froze, his hand still on his sword. “But Sire—”
“I said, step back,” the Pharaoh repeated, standing up slowly from his knees. The grief that had softened his face just moments ago instantly hardened into the terrifying majesty of a living god. He turned to face the high priest, whose linen robes were pristine, untouched by the dirt of the world outside. “Speak, Priest. What is the test?”
The high priest bowed his head, though his dark eyes remained cold and calculating. He gestured toward a pair of massive, brass-bound doors at the eastern side of the throne hall, which led down into the subterranean chambers beneath the palace.
“Twelve years ago, when the royal nursery burned and the infant prince vanished, the sacred temple of Anubis received a guardian,” the high priest explained, his voice echoing off the high sandstone pillars. “The Great Asp of the First Dynasty. A colossal, venomous sand-serpent that has lived in the dark beneath the throne for generations. It is written in the oldest papyrus scrolls that the true bloodline of Ra holds a divine scent—a warmth that the sacred serpent recognizes. To an impostor, its strike is instantaneous death, turning the blood to ash within seconds. But to the true heir of the throne, the serpent will bow.”
A collective gasp rippled through the rows of wealthy merchants, scribes, and elite nobles lining the hall. They began to whisper furiously behind their painted fans and linen sleeves.
“The sand-serpent…” a noblewoman whispered in horror. “Nothing survives its venom. It is a death sentence.”
Haremhab’s eyes lit up with a cruel, malicious joy. He saw his salvation in the priest’s words. If I was thrown to the beast, I would surely die, and his brutal beating of a beggar boy would be forgotten, written off as the righteous punishment of a common thief.
“An excellent judgment!” Haremhab declared, stepping forward with renewed confidence. “Let the gods decide! If the boy is a prince, he will live. If he is the street rat I know he is, the serpent will execute him for his grand deception. Let us proceed immediately, Your Majesty!”
The Pharaoh looked down at me, his jaw clenched. I could see the agonizing conflict in his eyes. He had spent twelve years mourning a son he believed had perished in the ashes of a burning palace. Now, a spark of hope had been ignited, but to prove it, he had to risk sending that same child into the jaws of a mythical monster.
“Father…” I whispered.
The word slipped from my lips before I could even think. It wasn’t because I knew I was a prince—I didn’t. I only knew the poverty of the slums, the hunger, and the sweet, fading voice of my mother who had raised me in hiding. But looking into the Pharaoh’s weeping eyes, something deep within my soul recognized him. A faint, distant memory of a warm embrace and a deep, rumbling voice singing a song I could never fully remember.
The Pharaoh clutched his golden scepter so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Bring the boy to the sacred pit,” he commanded, his voice heavy with dread.
Two muscular royal guards immediately seized my arms, lifting my frail, bare feet off the polished floor. Haremhab walked beside them, a dark, victorious sneer returning to his face. As we marched down the cold, torch-lit stone stairs into the depths of the palace, he leaned down close to my ear, his breath hot and reeking of palm wine.
“Enjoy your final breaths, little rat,” Haremhab hissed so low that only I could hear. “Even if you somehow possess royal blood, you won’t survive the dark. I will make sure your mother joins you in the afterlife by sunset.”
Terror gripped my chest, but as we entered the massive underground chamber, the fear began to morph into something else. I looked at the hundreds of nobles who had followed us down, standing on the stone tiers surrounding a deep, sand-filled pit. They were gathered for entertainment, waiting to see a child torn apart for their amusement.
In the center of the pit, the sand began to swirl. A low, terrifying hiss echoed through the cavern, and from the shadows of a deep tunnel, a monstrous shape began to emerge. It was a sand-serpent of impossible size, its scales the color of dried bone, its eyes glowing like twin embers in the torchlight. Its massive hood flared, revealing deep black patterns that looked like ancient hieroglyphs of death.
The guards threw me over the stone ledge. I tumbled down into the deep, shifting sand of the pit, landing hard on my bruised ribs. The crowd above peered over the edge, their faces filled with morbid curiosity.
Haremhab stood at the forefront, leaning over the stone railing, his eyes gleaming. “Watch closely, Your Majesty!” he shouted to the Pharaoh, who stood frozen on his royal platform. “Watch the gods strike down the liar!”
The colossal serpent turned its massive head toward me. Its long, black, forked tongue tasted the air, making a wet, snapping sound. It began to slither forward, its massive body creating deep grooves in the sand, closing the distance between us in a matter of seconds. I was completely trapped, a broken child in the dust, facing certain doom.
The serpent reared back, towering ten feet above me, its massive jaws opening to reveal curved fangs dripping with a thick, pale yellow venom. The crowd held its breath. Haremhab began to laugh.
But as the beast prepared to strike, a strange, overwhelming warmth washed over my body, originating from the very spot where the gold scarab coin had rested against my skin.
CHAPTER 4
The massive sand-serpent froze.
Its fangs were inches from my face, the heat of its breath washing over my skin. The wet, terrifying hiss died down into a low, rhythmic vibration that resonated through the stone floor of the entire cavern. The black patterns on its flared hood seemed to pulse in the torchlight.
The crowd on the stone tiers went dead silent. Nobody breathed. Nobody moved.
The serpent’s glowing ember eyes locked onto mine. But instead of the wild, predatory fury of a monster, its gaze became strangely calm, almost reverent. Slowly, impossibly, the colossal beast began to lower its head. It didn’t strike. It drifted downward until its massive, bone-colored snout gently pressed against the dust right at my bare, bleeding feet.
The great guardian of Anubis was bowing.
A collective shockwave seemed to pass through the throne room above and the cavern below. Scribes dropped their papyrus scrolls; wealthy noblewomen pressed their hands against their mouths to stifle screams of utter disbelief.
“By the gods…” the high priest whispered, his staff trembling in his hand as he fell to his knees. “The legend is true. The bloodline of Ra… it is him.”
Pharaoh Amenemhat stood at the edge of the royal platform, tears streaming freely down his weathered cheeks. The crown of Egypt seemed light compared to the immense weight of joy that instantly flooded his face. “My son,” he breathed, his voice carrying an emotional weight that broke the silence of the room. “The gods have returned my boy to me!”
I slowly reached out my small, dirt-caked hand. My fingers trembled as I placed them against the cold, smooth scales of the massive serpent’s head. The beast closed its eyes, letting out a soft, contented sigh that blew the dust around my feet. It was a declaration that the whole kingdom could see: I was the true, undeniable heir to the throne of Egypt.
“Guards! Lift the prince from the pit!” the Pharaoh roared, his voice filled with a magnificent, terrifying authority. “Bring my son to me!”
The same two guards who had thrown me into the dust now descended into the pit with the utmost reverence, their faces pale with fear. They gently lifted me, as if I were made of the finest glass, and carried me up the stone steps back into the grand throne hall.
The crowd of nobles parted like the reeds of the Nile before a great vessel. As I walked, people threw themselves to the floor, their forehead pressing against the stone in absolute submission to the boy they had mocked just an hour ago.
But my eyes were fixed on one man.
Commander Haremhab stood frozen near the Pharaoh’s dais. His bronze armor, which had once made him look like an untouchable god among men, now looked like a heavy, suffocating cage. His face was entirely devoid of color, his mouth hanging open as he stared at me. The realization of what he had done—the public humiliation, the brutal beating, the attempted execution of the crown prince—was settling into his soul like lead.
The Pharaoh rushed down from his throne, completely ignoring royal protocol, and threw his arms around me. He held me tightly against his royal robes, weeping into my matted hair. “Twelve years,” the King sobbed. “Twelve years I believed the shadows had taken you. Forgive me, my son. Forgive me for letting you suffer in the dark.”
“Father,” I whispered, resting my head against his shoulder. “My mother… she is dying in the slums. She protected me. She kept me safe from the ones who set the fire.”
The Pharaoh pulled back, his eyes narrowing into a fierce, dangerous glare as he turned toward the court. “Your mother will be brought to the palace by the royal physicians before the sun sets. She will be honored as a queen for her loyalty and sacrifice.”
Then, the Pharaoh’s gaze shifted, locking onto Commander Haremhab. The temperature in the throne hall seemed to drop to freezing.
“As for you, Haremhab,” the Pharaoh said, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly calm whisper that echoed in every corner of the room.
Haremhab instantly fell to his knees, his heavy armor clanking uselessly against the floor. He pressed his face into the dirt, right where I had been forced to kneel earlier. “Mercy, Living God! Mercy!” he begged, his voice high-pitched and pathetic, stripped of all its former arrogance. “I did not know! I thought he was just a common thief! I was only protecting your city, protecting your laws! I swear by the sun god Ra, I did not know!”
“You beat a starving child because his hand brushed your golden chariot,” I said, stepping out from behind my father. My voice was small, but it filled the silent hall with an undeniable power. “You kicked dust into my face while I begged for a single piece of bread to save my mother. You wanted to cut off my hands for a mistake born of hunger. If this is how you protect the laws of Egypt, then you are a monster, not a commander.”
The nobles nodded in fierce agreement, completely turning against the man they had cheered for just moments ago.
The Pharaoh stepped forward, his golden scepter raised high. “You have abused the power given to you by the crown, Haremhab. You have shown no mercy to the weak, and you have spilled the sacred blood of my dynasty upon the stones of my own courtyard.”
“Please, Sire! Spare my life!” Haremhab wept, his body shaking violently as he groveled in the dust.
“Your life is no longer yours to beg for,” the Pharaoh declared coldly. “By the decree of the High Pharaoh of Egypt, Commander Haremhab is stripped of his rank, his titles, and his lands. His golden chariots shall be melted down to buy bread for every starving soul in the riverbank slums.”
The crowd gasped, but the judgment was not finished.
“And for the crime of striking the royal heir,” the Pharaoh continued, pointing his scepter directly at the trembling man. “Haremhab shall be bound in chains and cast into the very desert arena where he has sent so many innocent souls to die. He shall spend the remainder of his days working in the white-hot limestone quarries as a common slave, tasting the very dust he forced my son to eat.”
The royal guards immediately stepped forward, showing no hesitation. They grabbed Haremhab by his heavy bronze collar, dragging him backward across the polished stone floor. He screamed and cried, begging for mercy from the nobles, from the priests, and from me—but every single person turned their back to him, refusing to look at a broken tyrant.
I watched him go, the weight of his cruelty finally leaving my shoulders. The heavy bronze-toed boot would never strike me again. My mother would be saved, and the suffering of the slums was finally over.
The Pharaoh placed his heavy golden hand on my shoulder, turning me to face the hundreds of citizens who stood in awe. As the entire court raised their hands in salute to the returned prince, I looked down at the gold scarab coin in my palm, knowing that true strength was not found in the bronze armor of a cruel commander, but in the enduring justice of the gods who protect the forgotten.
