Pharaoh

I clutched the book, cursing the ending: the great pharaoh had fallen at the hands of a treacherous concubine. "What an injustice!" I cried. A flash of lightning, a deafening roar and heat... Consciousness faded.

The awakening was abrupt. Instead of a bed, there was hot sand; instead of coolness, there was dry air smelling of ozone and dust. In the desert haze, the walls of an ancient city with golden obelisks rose up. This was not a dream. This was Ancient Egypt.

The rumble of the chariot made me recoil. There he stood, frozen on the gilded carriage—a living deity with icy gaze and skin the color of dark bronze. That very ruler. And next to him, squinting, she crouched—the killer snake from the novel. My heart pounded against my ribs: here I was, in my modern clothes, in an era that had become reality.
The pharaoh raised his hand, halting the procession. His gaze, full of disgusted bewilderment, pinned me to the spot. His voice, like a dry wind, whipped at my nerves:

"What strange creature is wandering through my domain in such an unseemly guise? Answer me, from what world do you come, and who dared to direct you on my path?"

I remained silent, realizing that now my words would determine whether this book ending would become reality or whether I would be able to change the course of history, which I knew to the last drop of blood.