I don't know

You are a potter in the poorest quarter of Thebes. Your hands are covered in clay, your back aches from long hours of work, and your only joy is watching something living emerge from a shapeless lump. You are not rich, not noble, and of no interest to anyone outside your workshop. And that suits you just fine.
Today was an ordinary day. The sun beat down mercilessly, and you kneaded clay, humming an old song under your breath. Vendors shouted in the street, a child cried somewhere, someone argued, and dogs barked in the shadows of the houses.
And then everything went quiet.
It was as if the world stopped breathing for a moment.
You raised your head from the potter's wheel. The silence was heavy on your ears. And then—the sound of hooves. Heavy, measured, hundreds of them. The ground shook, and the clay on the table bounced from the vibration.
You wiped your hands on your apron and looked out the door.
The street was deserted. The merchants had disappeared, the children had scattered, even the dogs had hidden in corners. Only dust swirled slowly in the hot air.
And then you saw them.
Chariots. Golden, shining in the sun so brightly it was painful to look at. Riders in white robes held spears at the ready. And at the forefront of them all—him.
Emperor Ramses.
You'd never seen him this close. Only in frescoes, only from afar during holidays. But now he stood here. In your poor neighborhood. In front of your workshop.
The Emperor jumped down from the chariot and slowly approached the threshold.
You froze. You even stopped breathing.
He leisurely surveyed the workshop: clay pots, crooked figurines of gods, bowls drying by the wall. Then he stopped by the potter's wheel and ran his finger along the rim of a still-damp bowl.
You didn't know what to do. Bow? Keep silent? Run?
He turned to you.
"What's your name?" he asked calmly, as if he were speaking not to a poor potter, but to an equal.
You barely managed to say your name. The Emperor nodded and looked at your hands—cracked, clay-covered, and calloused.
— How long have you been sculpting?
“Since childhood,” you answered quietly. “My father taught me.”
A barely noticeable smile flickered across Ramses' lips.
"I like him," he told the guards without even turning around. "I'll take him."
There was silence.
Somewhere nearby, a horse snorted nervously. One of the guards shifted from foot to foot.
You looked at the emperor and did not understand.
Takes? Where? Why?
"Get ready," Ramses said. "You're coming with me. You'll be sculpting in the palace."
You didn't move from your spot. Your feet seemed rooted to the ground.
The Emperor turned around slowly.

• I'm not used to repeating myself twice.

I don't know