The morning sun climbed higher, turning the Nile into a ribbon of molten bronze. Kael-Ankh stood at the edge of Merit's courtyard for a long moment, letting the reality settle over him like fine dust after a wind. Every breath carried scents he had only ever read about or smelled in poorly ventilated museum storerooms: sun-baked mud, drying fish from yesterday's catch, the faint sweetness of date palms heavy with fruit, and underneath it all the rich, living green of the river itself.
He flexed his bare feet against the packed earth floor. The ground felt alive—warm, slightly yielding, humming with a subtle vibration he couldn't quite name. Not an earthquake. Not imagination. Something deeper, like the land itself was breathing in rhythm with the people who walked it.
Merit emerged from the shadowed doorway, wiping her hands on a scrap of linen. She wore a simple white sheath dress that fell to her ankles, cinched at the waist with a cord of braided fiber. Her hair was black and glossy, pulled back into a practical knot with a few strands escaping to frame her face. She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties—lines of laughter and worry etched around her eyes, but her movements were strong and sure.
"You stand there like a statue of Ptah waiting to be carved," she said, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. "Come. If you're to stay even one more day, you must eat something. And perhaps help with the loom before the heat makes fingers clumsy."
Kael followed her inside. The main room was dim and cool, lit only by light filtering through small high windows. The walls were smooth mud plaster, painted in faded ochre and white geometric patterns near the ceiling. A low wooden stool sat beside a vertical loom propped against one wall; threads of red-dyed linen stretched taut between wooden beams. Baskets of raw flax and spun yarn waited nearby.
Merit gestured to a reed mat spread on the floor. "Sit. Bread and onions. Beer if you want it weak. The strong stuff is for evenings when the work is done."
She handed him a flat round of emmer bread, still warm from the clay oven outside, and a peeled onion sliced into rings. Simple food, but the flavors exploded on his tongue—earthy, slightly sweet bread; sharp, clean bite of onion. He ate slowly, savoring each bite as though it might vanish.
While he ate, Merit returned to her loom. Her hands moved with practiced rhythm: shuttle sliding, beater pressing down, feet working the heddles to separate warp threads. The clack-clack-clack was almost musical.
Kael watched, fascinated. In his old life he had studied textiles from grave goods—fragments preserved in dry tombs—but this was living craft. "How long have you woven?" he asked.
"Since I could reach the lower beam," she replied without looking up. "My mother taught me. Her mother before her. Linen keeps Kemet clothed and cool. And the gods like fine cloth for their statues."
He nodded, then—on impulse—reached out and touched the edge of a finished piece draped over a stool. The fabric was impossibly soft, finer than any modern cotton he had ever felt.
Merit's eyes flicked to him. "You touch like someone who has never seen good linen before."
"I've seen it," he said carefully. "But never… felt it like this. Alive."
She laughed softly. "Alive? It's only thread. But yes, it carries the breath of the weaver. Some say the best pieces hold a little heka—protection against scorpions, coolness in heat. Superstition, perhaps. Or truth. Who knows?"
Kael felt a faint tingle in his fingertips where they rested on the cloth. Not imagination. A whisper of energy, like static electricity on dry winter skin. He pulled his hand back, heart quickening.
Merit noticed. "You felt it?"
"I… think so."
She studied him for a long moment. "Strange one. No clan beads, no protective tattoos, yet you sense the small magics most ignore." She shrugged. "The gods mark whom they will. Finish your bread. Then come outside. The village wakes, and strangers should be seen."
They stepped into the courtyard again. The compound opened onto a narrow lane that wound between similar houses—low, flat-roofed, mudbrick walls rising perhaps eight or nine feet, some with small ventilating slits shaped like eyes. Palm-frond awnings shaded doorways.
Children ran past, barefoot and laughing, chasing a wooden ball carved roughly into a sphere. One boy—no older than six—stopped short when he saw Kael.
"You're tall!" the child declared, head tilted back. "Taller than my uncle! Are you a soldier from Per-Ramesses?"
Kael crouched to the boy's level. "No soldier. Just… visiting."
The boy squinted. "You talk funny. Like someone from far south. Or maybe from the sea people?"
"Farther than that," Kael admitted.
The child grinned, showing a missing front tooth. "I'm Senen. Want to play senet? I have a board!"
Before Kael could answer, Senen darted off, returning moments later dragging a small wooden board painted with squares, accompanied by a handful of stone gaming pieces and two knucklebones for dice.
Kael laughed despite himself. Senet—the game of the dead and the living, played by pharaohs and peasants alike. He had reconstructed rules from tomb paintings and fragmentary papyri. Now here it was, in living color.
They sat in the shade. Senen explained the rules with the solemnity of an expert, though he clearly bent them to his advantage. Kael played gently, letting the boy win two rounds before winning one himself with a clever move involving the House of Water.
"You're good!" Senen exclaimed. "But next time I'll beat you with my lucky throw!"
As they played, other villagers passed by. A woman carrying a water jar on her head paused to nod politely. An old man leading a donkey laden with reeds gave a grunt of greeting. Eyes lingered on Kael—curious, assessing, but not hostile.
A young mother with a baby slung on her back walked past. She paused at the sight of Merit, then made a small gesture: fingers tracing a quick loop in the air over her child's head while murmuring something under her breath. The baby cooed happily. Kael caught the tail end of the words: "…may Bes guard you from night-demons…"
The gesture left a faint shimmer in the air, gone in an instant. Protective heka. Casual. Everyday.
Kael's skin prickled. In his old life, that would have been dismissed as folklore. Here it was real, woven into the fabric of daily existence like seasoning in bread.
Merit noticed his stare. "You see the small wards now?"
"They're… common?"
"As common as breathing," she said. "A mother wards her child. A fisherman wards his net. A weaver wards her loom against breaking threads. Most are weak—barely enough to turn aside a bad dream or a minor sting. But they matter."
Kael looked down at his own hands. The scarab amulet still tucked in his belt felt heavier suddenly.
By mid-morning the heat had risen enough that most activity moved indoors or under shade. Merit set Kael to small tasks: grinding emmer grain with a saddle quern (his arms ached after twenty minutes), fetching fresh water from the communal well (a deep shaft lined with bricks, water hauled up in a leather bucket on a rope), carrying armloads of dried reeds to repair a sagging awning.
Each task felt strangely grounding. His body—stronger, younger—moved with ease. Sweat ran down his back, but it felt clean, honest.
As noon approached, Merit called him inside for the midday meal: more bread, lentils cooked with garlic, a few dates. They ate in companionable silence.
"You work well," she said at last. "Not like some who arrive thinking labor is beneath them."
"I've worked before," Kael replied. "Different tools. Different world."
She raised an eyebrow but didn't press.
After eating, she showed him the small household shrine in a niche near the door. A wooden figure of Taweret stood there—hippo-headed, lion-pawed, swollen belly rounded in protection—flanked by two tiny oil lamps and a fresh lotus blossom floating in a shallow bowl of water. (Imagine the serene household shrine here.)
Merit touched the goddess's feet lightly. "She watches over mothers and children. And widows, sometimes."
Kael felt another pulse—stronger this time—from the statue. Not aggressive. Welcoming. Like a hand resting briefly on his shoulder.
He bowed his head instinctively. "Thank you for letting me stay."
Merit waved it away. "One more night at least. Tomorrow you can decide: stay and work for your keep, or walk on. Waset proper is a day's journey south. Bigger temples. More chances. More dangers."
As evening fell, the village came alive again. Fires were lit in courtyards. Laughter carried on the cooling breeze. A man sat mending fishing nets by firelight, humming a low tune while his fingers wove reed cord in intricate patterns.
Kael helped Merit spread mats on the flat roof for sleeping—cooler up there, away from scorpions and rising damp. Stars emerged, brighter than he had ever seen, the Milky Way a river of light across the black.
He lay on his back, arms behind his head, listening to the village settle: a baby crying briefly then quieting, a dog barking at shadows, the soft splash of the Nile against reeds.
His mind raced.
This was no simulation. No dream. Every detail was too consistent, too textured. The myths were real—living, breathing, woven into daily life. And he was here, unmarked, unclaimed, carrying knowledge from a world that had forgotten magic.
He touched the scarab amulet again. It warmed under his fingers.
Kael-Ankh, the whisper came once more, faint but clear.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow he would learn more. Tomorrow he would test the edges of this new reality.
For now, he let the stars watch over him.