Page 31 of Rise of the Gods: Vardor’s Destiny (Time for Monsters)

T he sun blazed high in the sky, casting long, sharp shadows across the golden sands as we rode toward the Great Pyramids of Giza. My heart pounded with excitement, the kind that made my fingers tremble against the reins of my horse, and my breath quickened with anticipation.

This was the moment I had dreamed of since I was a child, since the first time I had seen an ancient papyrus sketch of these impossibly grand structures in a book. And now, here I was, in the land of the pharaohs and gods, where history stretched further back than any kingdom of men I had ever heard of.

The moment the city faded behind us and the pyramids came into full view, my breath caught in my throat.

They were larger than I had ever imagined, towering above the desert like eternal sentinels. Their limestone faces worn by time yet still radiating majesty, power, permanence.

I barely contained my excitement as I turned to Vardor, who sat tall in his saddle beside me, his expression unreadable.

"You do not know how long I've waited for this," I breathed, my voice filled with reverence.

He watched me, his gaze dark and knowing. "I think I do."

I let out a shaky laugh, barely able to tear my gaze away. "I used to sit for hours reading about this place. About the kings who built these monuments. About how these stones were quarried from across the Nile and dragged over land, lifted into place with nothing but sheer will and ingenuity." I gestured at the pyramids, aching to be closer, to touch them, to feel their age beneath my fingertips.

"They say the Great Pyramid was once covered in smooth white limestone, so polished it gleamed like a second sun. Can you imagine that? A mountain of light rising from the sands?"

Vardor followed my gaze but said nothing.

I pressed on, driven by the force of my enthusiasm.

"The pyramid of Khufu, the largest, is said to be more than four thousand years old. And that one—" I pointed toward the second largest, its top still covered in a faint cap of casing stones. "That's the pyramid of Khafre. People used to think it was taller than Khufu's, but it only looks that way because it was built on slightly higher ground. And the smallest—Menkaure's pyramid—was unfinished when he died, but it's said his descendants continued his work."

I turned to Vardor, expecting him to be at least somewhat impressed, but his expression remained unreadable and distant.

I frowned. "This isn't what you remember, is it?"

His gaze flicked to me then, a muscle ticked in his jaw. "No."

I studied him, "Tell me."

He was silent for a long moment as if weighing whether to answer. Then, finally, he exhaled.

"The last time I stood in this place, there was no city called Cairo. There were no pyramids ." His gaze returned to the great structures. "Only trees, rivers, and Vaelora's palace."

A shiver ran through me at his words. I turned back to the pyramids, seeing them through his eyes for the first time. Where I saw monuments to kings, he saw a goddess's lost empire. For a moment, a trick of the sun, I was sure, I saw a white palace set with gold, hundreds of trees, and pools so clear the sky reflected in them. It was the most beautiful sight I had ever laid eyes on.

"These weren't here," Vardor continued, destroying the last remnants of the mirage. "But Vaelora spoke of them. She spoke of building a city that would never fall. A city that would outlast empires."

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 are chambers 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 to absorb 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.

"The Grand Gallery leads to the King'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 the King's Chamber was 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.

"This was built thousands of years ago," I murmured, running my fingers along the stone as we moved deeper inside. "They say it was built in just twenty years, but no one truly knows how. Some claim there were thousands of workers, slaves, even ramps that stretched for miles. Others say it would have been impossible without divine intervention."

Vardor made a low sound in his throat. "If Vaelora wanted it built, it would have been done. Mortals are always eager to build monuments for their gods."

I glanced at him, his olive skin tinged in the dim light of the torches mounted along the walls. "And what do you think? Was this built by mortal hands alone?"

His gaze remained unreadable. "I think it still stands when everything else has fallen."

His words made a cold chill run down my spine and brought home how fickle everything we were so proud of was. In the blink of an eye, monuments like this could be gone. Entire civilizations had grown and fallen apart. What did that say about us, as humans? It was a depressing thought, one I didn't want to dwell on, but something like a premonition hovered over me, putting a dark shadow over my joy.

We pressed on, moving through the Ascending Passage , the ceiling so low we had to crouch slightly. It was getting warmer the further we moved into the sealed belly of the pyramid. The other visitors' voices grew faint behind us, and soon it was just us and the quiet weight of the past.

The passage opened suddenly into a vast, sloping corridor—the Grand Gallery . I stopped short to take it all in. The ceiling soared above us, lined with overlapping stone slabs that seemed to stretch toward the heavens. The entire chamber had a steep incline, and the walls narrowed as they rose, making it feel like we were standing at the base of a passage meant for gods. Vardor exhaled slowly next to me. I wished I could have read his thoughts, because his expression wasn't giving anything away.

"It's beautiful," I whispered, tilting my head back. "The engineering... it's perfect."

He didn't respond, but I could feel his attention shift to me—to the way I was drinking in every inch of this place. I turned to him, my pulse thrumming with excitement. "You don't understand, Vardor. These stones—these angles—no one can explain how they did this! There are no chisel marks. No mortar. The weight of the structure alone holds it together. The people who built this... they understood something we've lost."

Or perhaps, I realized, they had been taught something we had lost. I shivered at the thought, that maybe Vaelora's hand had been in this all along.

At the end of the Grand Gallery , we climbed up a short, narrow passageway before emerging into the final chamber—the place where the pharaoh had been meant to rest for eternity.

The King's Chamber was overwhelming in its emptiness. The walls were smooth and unadorned compared to the temples and tombs I had studied. At its center sat a single, rectangular stone sarcophagus, its lid long missing, same with whatever secrets it had once held.

I stepped forward cautiously, running my fingers along the rough, ancient surface. This was a far cry from what it surely had once been. Filled with treasures beyond imagination.

"They never found his body," I murmured, staring into the empty space inside. "Some say the pyramid was looted. Others say he was never buried here to begin with."

I turned to Vardor, realizing how quiet he was. Unease filled my voice. "What is it?"

His gaze swept over the chamber, his shoulders tense, his posture rigid. Finally, he spoke. "This was not built for men."

A chill passed through me. "What do you mean?"

He faced me fully, his black eyes appeared even darker in the flickering torchlight. "This was not a tomb, Roweena. It was never meant to hold the dead."

The words settled between us, thick as the ancient air. My pulse quickened. If it wasn't a tomb... then what was it?