The Pharaoh's princess

Dream 2

Renee – POV

When I got home, Mom made me do a full runway spin in the living room—her signature wellness check for minor catastrophes.

“I’m fine,” I said between laughs, arms out like a model on command. “Idris caught me before I hit the ground.”

Her amused expression softened, then tilted with curiosity. “Wait… isn’t that the same strange boy who got all up in your space on the first day?”

“El mismo,” I muttered with a sigh.

“See, Renee,” she said, wagging a finger. “You can’t always judge a book by its cover.”

I smirked, remembering how irritated I’d been with Idris that first day. She wasn’t wrong.

Then I remembered the permission slip.

“Oh—can you sign this? It’s for the museum trip next week.”

She signed without hesitation, before Elena dragged her off for math help. Poor thing—she was just as mathematically doomed as I was at her age.

I took over dinner and made mangú with fried eggs, salami, and caramelized onions—Elena’s favorite. The smell of crispy cheese filled the kitchen while soft music floated through the house like incense.

It was finally Friday. Thank god.

Seriously, whose brilliant idea was it to start school on a Thursday?

After the week I’d had, I needed this weekend like a lifeline.

Later that night, after watching Crystalia 2 for the hundredth time, I crawled into bed, tugged the blanket up to my chin, and let out a long breath.

Sleep came quickly.

Too quickly.

And when I opened my eyes again—

The mirror was waiting.

The golden-framed one.

The same dark chamber surrounded me, humming with quiet power.

I wasn’t even surprised this time.

I walked forward calmly, already knowing what I’d find. My reflection shimmered—then vanished.

She appeared.

Hathor.

“Hello, Renee,” she said gently.

“Why am I having these dreams?” I asked, my voice tight.

“It is the easiest way,” she answered, “to return your memories to you.”

“My memories?” My stomach turned.

“Yes,” she said, smiling faintly. “You’ll understand soon.”

The mirror flashed with blinding light.

And I was pulled once again into that golden, sunlit world.

I opened my eyes to silk sheets and the scent of lotus oil. The same elegant bedchamber. I wasn’t in control, but I was fully present.

Water splashed over my face. My chest hurt like it had been hollowed out.

Her thoughts whispered again.

I must go to Father. I owe him an apology. He must have had a reason...

My feet moved of their own accord, carrying me through arched halls lined with woven linen and painted stone.

But as I stepped into the Pharaoh’s chamber—

She ran.

“Father!”

He lay crumpled on the ground, his breathing shallow, his skin pale beneath the gold. Vomit pooled beneath him.

My chest seized.

I screamed for help. Two attendants burst in, lifting him gently onto the bedding.

His eyes opened for a brief moment. He looked at me with a love so deep, so devastated, it nearly broke me in two.

“I’m sorry, my little Neferet,” he whispered. “My treasure. I must leave you too soon. You still have so much to learn. Look to Rahotep, my little morning and evening star. He will protect you. Always.”

My body dropped to its knees. I sobbed—loud and unrelenting.

“No. No, please...”

But it was too late.

His eyes closed, and this time, they didn’t open again.

The attendants pulled me back, their hands firm but respectful. “You must not touch him,” one said. “The rites are sacred now.”

I fought them. Screamed.

“Father!”

But everything darkened again.

Idris – POV

I woke up in that bed again. Stone walls. Gold drapery. A world I remembered and didn’t.

Then—screaming.

“Father, no!”

The cry echoed through the corridor like a blade drawn from a scabbard.

My body moved before I could think. I sprinted.

I found her unconscious in a guard’s arms. Neferet. Limp. Pale. Tears streaked her face like war paint.

My heart sank.

“Is she alright?” I asked.

“She is in shock,” the guard said. “Grief struck her down.”

I pushed past him into the Pharaoh’s chamber.

He was gone.

Still. Cold. Wrapped in silence.

Priests circled him in hushed reverence.

I stepped inside—and everyone bowed.

They see me as him.

Rahotep.

I knelt beside the Pharaoh’s body, hands trembling.

“You weren’t supposed to leave yet,” my voice said through his lips. “I’m not ready.”

The grief hit like a tidal wave—rage, sorrow, helplessness.

“You raised me like a son. Taught me to lead. To fight. To think.” I swallowed hard. “How am I supposed to be what you were?”

Tears blurred my vision.

And then—anger.

At the cook. At the traitor. At the gods.

“I am the Pharaoh now,” I said, breath sharp. And I swear—I’ll protect her. And the ones who did this will pay.”

I turned toward a bronze mirror hanging on the wall—highly polished, glowing faintly.

And I saw myself.

Not Rahotep.

Me.

My face. My eyes. The faint scar beneath my jaw.

My hand reached forward, trembling. I pressed my palm to the cool metal.

“Rahotep,” I whispered. “Can you hear me?”

In the reflection, Rahotep stiffened slightly.

My heart leapt.

“Please,” I said louder. “Something’s going to happen to her. To Neferet. You have to protect her.”

No response.

He turned away.

“Dammit,” I muttered. “Listen to me! I’m you—from the future. Or another life—I don’t know. But I am you!”

Still nothing. Why wont he listen?

Then a voice—soft and radiant—spoke behind me.

“Because he cannot.”

I turned.

Hathor stood behind me, surrounded by golden light. Her presence silenced the air around us.

“What do you mean he can’t hear me?” I demanded. “He is me.”

“No,” she said. “He was you. You are only a visitor now. These are shadows. Memories. You cannot interfere. You may only remember.”

“So I’m powerless?” I asked, fists clenched.

“It is forbidden to alter the past,” she said gently. “These moments once belonged to you. I promised I would return them.”

“When?” I asked. “When did you promise that?”

But she only smiled—and disappeared.

I turned back.

My body—Rahotep’s body—rose to its feet.

I summoned the priests. Gave instructions to begin embalming. The tomb was ready. The journey had begun.

Rituals. Processions. Sacrifices.

I ordered feasts to be prepared. The reenactment of the myth of Osiris and Set to be performed.

Then the high priest entered—and I nearly gasped aloud.

It was Mr. Smith.

His head was shaved. Eyes outlined in kohl. But the smirk was unmistakable.

What was he doing here?

He leaned in and whispered that I would need to undergo the rites myself before ascending—feasts, blessings, the traditional trials.

I stared at him, heart pounding.

The mask he wore couldn’t hide the truth.

Something wasn’t right.

And it wasn’t just me