I let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, shaking my head. "But she didn't, the Egyptians did."
His eyes remained locked on the pyramids, his past and my present colliding in this single moment. The silence stretched between us as we rode closer. The sand crunched beneath our horses' hooves, the dry desert air was filled with heat and history.
Just before we reached the base of Khufu's pyramid, he said, "I wouldn't be so sure about that."
It took me a moment to make sense of his words, to realize he was implying that not the Egyptians but Vaelora was the mastermind behind all this glory. Maybe he was right; maybe she had, and the Pharaohs had taken what was there and made it theirs.
I didn't care right then. I all but threw myself off my horse, my boots sinking into the warm sand as I strode forward, drawn toward the massive blocks of stone stacked before me. The need to touch them, to feel the ancient rock beneath my palms, was overpowering. When I stood in front of it, I hesitated for only a moment before I couldn't hold back any longer, I reached out to press the flat of my hand against history.
The surface was rougher than I expected, worn from centuries of wind and sand but solid beneath my fingertips, unyielding and eternal. I swallowed hard in awe and humility. I was touching something that had stood since before my world had even taken shape. It was breathtaking, humbling. A stark reminder of how fast life flew by.
"People have dedicated their lives to studying these," I murmured, more to myself, to ground myself. "There arechambers hidden deep inside. Some believe they were tombs, others say they had a greater purpose. But no one really knows for certain."
Vardor dismounted slowly, measuring his steps as he joined me. "Vaelora knew."
I turned my gaze up to him, blinking in the harsh sunlight. "What do you mean?"
"She spoke of them," he said again, his eyes on the stone beneath my hands. "Not as tombs. As beacons. Anchors of power."
A chill ran through me despite the heat. Beacons. Power.
I had never thought of them as anything but structures built by men. But Vardor had seen this land before it became Egypt—before it became a civilization that worshiped other gods. Gods with names alien to him. Other gods beside him and Vaelora. Did it hurt him that time and mortals had forgotten about him?
The wind howled across the desert, whipping sand around us, and I turned back to the great structures, new questions forming in my mind. I had come here expecting to see the past. But now, it was hard to tell if I was witnessing the past or standing on the edge of something still unfinished.
Even with those thoughts, it was hard to shrug off the weight of history as it pressed down on me, and my breath was unsteady the moment we stepped into the shadowed entrance of the Great Pyramid of Khufu.
The contrast between the blazing desert sun and the cool darkness of the interior was instantaneous. The air turned thick and still, as if time itself had slowed inside these walls. The scent of aged stone, dust, and something older than memory filled my lungs.
Vardor followed behind me, his presence solid and watchful as always. I was grateful that he was giving me the space toabsorb the gravity of finally standing inside the place I read and fantasized so much about.
But we weren't alone, several other visitors and scholars stood scattered throughout the entrance passageway, their voices hushed as they inspected the hieroglyph-covered walls and examined the structure. I spotted a small group of men in tailored European clothing, some sketching into notebooks, others measuring the stone with crude tools.
Archaeologists.
The Egyptian government had only recently begun allowing foreigners to study these monuments, and it was clear that these men were here to document what they could before others did. A few local guides stood nearby, conversing in Arabic, their gazes flickering toward us as we entered. One man, his robes loose and flowing, caught my eye and gestured toward a tunnel ahead.
"TheGrand Galleryleads to theKing's Chamber," he said in thickly accented English, clearly used to giving explanations. "Many believe it is the resting place of Pharaoh Khufu."
I already knew that. I had read about it countless times. But knowing and standing here were vastly different. No book could have prepared me for this monumental moment. To see, touch, and experience what people had done thousands of years ago, people long dead, was nearly incomprehensible.
Vardor remained silent, his gaze sweeping over the towering walls. I had the distinct feeling that he was searching for something—something beyond just history.
I turned to him, lowering my voice. "Does any of this seem... familiar?"
His eyes flicked to mine, his expression unsettled. "No."
I frowned. "But Vaelora spoke of this place."
"She spoke of what was to come," he corrected. "But when I was here last, none of this existed."
A shiver ran down my spine. To me, this was ancient—a structure that had stood for thousands of years. To him, it was new. I swallowed and faced forward again, the narrow passage ahead of us beckoning like an invitation from the past.
"Come on," I whispered. "Let's see what's inside."
The passageway sloped steeply downward, the tunnel just wide enough for two people to walk side by side. I had read about this—the original entrance led to an unfinished burial chamber deep below, but the true path to theKing's Chamberwas above.
The walls were smooth limestone, fitted so perfectly together that not even a knife blade could slip between them. The precision of it, the architectural mastery, sent a thrill through me.
