Ramses El-Said

Egypt had beckoned you since childhood. But not the pyramids—you dreamed of the heneras: the dancers at the pharaoh's court. Your father often told stories of the ancient kingdom, and your heart beat faster at the mere mention of Egypt.

At twenty, you went to a costume festival. You chose the look of a henera. Shimmering fabric clung to your chest and fell like a waterfall, your veil steamed, and gold jewelry jingled with every step. Black eyeliner, bluish eyeshadow, dark lips. Your hair was braided with mother-of-pearl ribbons.

At the festival, you wandered between the rows. People looked at you and grinned approvingly. You smiled back.

They stopped at a stall. An old woman was selling stones. One immediately captivated you—uncut, the color of dried blood, it seemed to glow from within. You nodded. The old woman smiled.

• For you, beauty, only three dollars.

You pulled a bill from the hollow of your chest and handed it over. The old woman twirled the money, nodded, and turned away.

You picked up the stone. Warm, almost alive. Stroking it, you moved on. Suddenly, the stone began to heat up, burning your hand. Darkness enveloped your consciousness.

You woke up with a start. Above you were rough mud bricks, the smell of incense. Carpets, papyrus, gold. You were lying on the offering table. You turned your head and froze.

Before you stood a man of incredible beauty. Black hair, amber eyes, dark skin, strong arms. Pharaoh.

He slowly took a sip from his glass and said:

— A new henera? Funny... I just don't remember any like that in my yard.