Chapter 1: The Birth of Menkara
The night air was still, heavy with the scent of the Nile. Inside a small mud-brick home, a single cry broke the silence. It was the sound of life—a boy taking his first breath beneath the gaze of the harvest moon.
His mother, Aset, held him close, her strength and exhaustion mixing in equal measure. She brushed a thumb over his cheek, her lips curling into a tired smile. "You were so eager to arrive," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
The midwife hovered nearby, adjusting the cloth around the newborn. She paused, her eyes narrowing as she studied the child. "There's a fire in him," she said, almost to herself. "Aset, this boy… the gods may have plans for him."
The door creaked open, and the boy's father stepped inside. Tall and broad-shouldered, he carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man used to wielding power, but his eyes softened as he knelt beside Aset. The medjay cloak draped over his shoulders shifted as he leaned closer to the child.
"What will we call him?" Aset asked, though the name already hung on the edge of her mind.
"Menkara," her husband said, his voice low and certain. He reached out to place a hand on the boy's tiny head, his fingers rough from years of service. "He will carry the name of warriors. And when his time comes, he will protect this land, as we have."
The baby stared up at his father, quiet now, his gaze unwavering. It wasn't the look of a newborn—it was something older, something deeper. Aset shivered despite the heat of the night.
"Menkara," she whispered.
Five Years Later
The desert heat was unrelenting, but Menkara barely noticed anymore. He followed his father's steady stride across the dunes, his legs aching from hours of running.
"Faster, Menkara!" his father called over his shoulder. "You can't let the desert beat you."
"I'm trying!" Menkara shouted back, his voice tinged with frustration. His bare feet sank into the hot sand with every step, but he pushed forward, refusing to stop.
Finally, they reached the base of a weathered ruin—a crumbling relic of a forgotten time. Menkara dropped to his knees, gasping for air.
"Why do we have to keep doing this?" he asked between breaths.
His father turned, his shadow stretching long over the boy. "Because the Medjay does not have the luxury of weakness," he said, his voice calm but unyielding. "If you are to take my place one day, you must be stronger than I ever was."
Menkara sat back on his heels, wiping sweat from his brow. "But why does it always have to be us?"
For a moment, his father said nothing. Then he knelt, placing a hand on Menkara's shoulder. "Because the Medjay are not just soldiers, Menkara. We protect Ma'at—the balance of this world. If we fail, chaos will follow. Do you understand?"
Menkara didn't answer right away. The words sat heavily on his young mind, but something about them felt right. Finally, he nodded. "I'll try harder."
His father smiled faintly. "Good. Because the desert never stops testing us now come we have some more laps to do" Menkara sighed tiredly and started running with his father again
Later that night, Menkara lays on his back outside their home, the stars bright and endless above him. The cool wind played through his hair, carrying the distant rustle of the Nile.
He held a small stone in his hand, turning it over and over again as he stared into the sky. "One day," he said quietly, "I'll be strong enough. Strong enough to protect everyone."
The wind shifted, almost as if it had heard him. It swept over him gently, and for a moment, Menkara could have sworn it was whispering his name.