I woke up screaming.
My throat burned with the rush of oxygen and I coughed, my body convulsing with every gasp and hitch while my tongue scraped against the roof of my mouth like a dry sponge.
Curly hair fell in my eyes as I sat up in a creaky medical bed—
Oh, that was too fast.
My insides churned, and I groaned, clutching my stomach.
“I hate dying,” I muttered. But maybe, I hated being resurrected more.
A strong, veined hand gripped my wrist, and a calloused thumb pressed against my pulse.
I jerked at the sudden contact, and the hand tightened.
“Calm down,” a monotonous voice said.
A boy, at least eighteen, held my hand. He counted under his breath, measuring my heart rate.
“45 beats a minute,” he said in a deadpan manner. “It’s liminal; below the threshold for a resurrected death-spawn.”
“Excuse me?” I said and wrestled my wrist out of his grasp. “I’m not a death-spawn.”
His brows furrowed.
“I checked your parentage against the scrolls,” he said flatly. “Thrice,”
The boy glanced at a priestess over his shoulder.
“Should I get an IV drip started?” he asked, the golden stud in his left ear glinting under the fluorescent lights.
The priestess smiled as she checked something off an examination clipboard. “You tell me, Tariq.”
He exhaled through his nose and recited his training, “’each heartbeat is a glyph; if interrupted, the heart collapses’. So, I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Collapses?!” I said, wincing as I leaned forward. I waved one hand. “Okay, hold on—“
“Again, remain calm,” Tariq said, pressing me back onto the medical bed. “You are safe, and your vitals are relatively stable... for now.”
“Oh, thanks for the reassurance, nurse,” I muttered, shifting under his grip.
He looked at me through half-lidded eyes. “I’m not a nurse. I’m a Warden-in-Training of the Second Measure.”
I rolled my eyes and turned onto my side, facing away.
The ‘Warden’ snorted at my insolence before he rolled an IV drip closer, its plastic wheels squeaking against the cold concrete.
The priestess shot him a warning look as she marked something on her clipboard.
The boy fidgeted with his golden earring, muttering something about a ‘failed exam’ and ‘stubborn patients’.
He cleared his throat. “Stretch out your arm.”
I huffed, but did as he asked.
After a few seconds without the needle’s pinch, I looked over.
The IV drip was already in.
“Huh,” I frowned. “I... didn’t feel that.”
He nodded; black eyes trained on the IV solution as his hands adjusted it to a steady drip.
“Numbed skin. A by-product of your resurrection,” He explained. “You’ll feel again in a few hours.”
I hesitated, an unsteady feeling coiling in my stomach. “And if I don’t?”
“You will,” he said, not bothering to meet my gaze.
“If I don’t survive, I swear—“ I muttered as I rested my head on the pillow— “I’ll claw out of Duat and haunt you,”
His lips twitched and he shook his head. “That’s cosmologically improbable.”
“Tariq...” the priestess’ mouth tightened. “A moment, please?”
The boy tugged at his earring as he finally met my gaze. “I’ll be back.”
My eyes narrowed as he left and I took a slow breath.
My cold skin thawed, and blood oozed through my veins at a steady rhythm.
“Warden-in-Training, huh?” I muttered.
Tariq seemed normal enough with his copper-brown hair that curled over his ears and freckled skin that was darkened by hours under the Egyptian sun.
I tilted my head; lips pressed in a thin line.
His lanky frame was deceiving. The way his shirt strained over his shoulders spoke of sports or physical training. Or fights.
But that wasn’t why I felt like a cat in a bag around Tariq.
Something was off.
He was... like me. A demigod who’d resurrected. One whom had died because of the gods.
The Warden-in-Training returned from the priestess with his jaw tensed and tired lines under his deep-set eyes.
Tariq tugged at the golden stud in his left ear, then lifted a penlight and checked my irises.
I blinked at the intrusive glare.
“Keep steady,” he murmured.
The light lingered until my eyes stopped watering.
He pocketed the penlight and picked up a file with Anubis’ jackal-headed symbol. He wrote with heavy-handed strokes in neat cursive.
The pen scratched, paused, scratched.
“Good oxygenation... smooth perfusion...” he recited under his breath.
I swung my legs off the edge of the medical bed, craning my neck to peer at his notes.
“Sounds like you were right. Maybe I’ll be fine.”
“Lie down,”
He didn’t look up.
The priestess tapped her red pen against her clipboard sharply and Tariq froze, his dark eyes snapping to his examiner. He exhaled through his nose.
“Please.” He corrected himself and forced a practiced smile. “It will help with faster recovery.”
The priestess hummed, satisfied. She scribbled something on her clipboard.
My eyes flickered between them, but I leaned forward anyway and lowered my voice. “Is this a test or something?”
“It’s my final examination,” Tariq explained. “It would have approved me as a Junior Warden.”
“Would have?” I repeated, eyes widening.
He glanced at the analogue clock fixed to the brick wall of the revival chamber and snapped my folder shut.
“I’ll check back in thirty minutes.” the Warden-in-Training said, eyes on the time. “The numbness in your skin will subside by then.
If not, I’ll ask a Junior Warden to align your Khat with your Shuet.”
“Align my... body and... shadow?” I repeated, frowning. “Wait- so you’re not gonna fix it?”
“I failed the exam.”
I stared at him.
His hand instinctively reached for his golden ear stud, his thumb worrying it before he caught himself and crossed his arms.
“Do you need anything before I go?”
“Some water,” I said. “My mouth tastes like sandpaper.”
He nodded. “I’ll get you ORS, then.”
“O..RS?”
“Oral Rehydration Solution,” he said. “It’s just water with some salt and sugar,”
I nodded. Two and a half days of involuntary fasting were catching up.
“Why did they fail you?” I asked.
“Bad bedside manner,” he made air-quotes for his examiner’s words. “My Ba’s power is apparently ‘not controlled enough’ to subdue chaos in resurrected souls.”
“Your personality isn’t controlled?” I translated. “Well, you could’ve fooled me.”
He raised an eyebrow, “I didn’t ‘fool you’. I disrupted your Ba while trying to stabilize your Ib with the IV.”
I rolled my eyes. “That was sarcasm, Tariq.”
He stiffened as my voice lilted around his name.
“Sarcasm,” he deadpanned. “Right.”
It was the first time I used his name; Easier than ‘Warden-in-Training of the Second Measure’ or whatever his title was now.
He studied the analogue clock again and crossed his arms. “I forgot your ORS.”
I tilted my head, brows furrowed. “You... We were literally having a normal conversation.”
“Normal conversations have less antagonism.”
“Antag-“ I scoffed. “Wow. Okay. And here I thought we were getting along just fine.”
Tariq’s jaw tightened as his hands dug into his arms. “No wonder they failed me because of you.”
My mouth fell open. Did he just...?
After everything.
After blood in my eyes, slipping into Duat, and never saying a final goodbye to my mother...
“Wow.” I turned my face away. “Real mature, Tariq.”
His expression remained blank as I sniffed and wiped my eyes.
A tear eluded the shaky brush of my fingers and rolled down my cheek.
Tariq’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
He averted his gaze, shifting his weight. “I didn’t... didn’t mean it like that,”
“Just go.” I said and caught the tear with an angry swipe.
Tariq sighed and dragged a hand through his hair, gaze softening. “Yeah, I’ll... get your rehydrate solution.”
He placed the bottle of rehydrate on the overbed table and his thumb tapped against the cap.
“Do you... want me to open it for you?”
My eyes narrowed, “Oh, please. Don’t.”
My lashes were wet from grief. “I wouldn’t want to be more trouble than I already am for making you fail your finals. Which, by the way, was so stupid of me. I mean— I should just have stayed dead!”
Tariq inhaled sharply. “Don’t say things like that. I’m sorry. Okay?”
He hesitated before sitting at the edge of the medical bed. The plastic overlay creaked as he straightened.
“I just...” He paused. Swallowed. “It’s been ten years. I wanted more...”
Tariq focused on the analogue wall clock.
A muscle jumped in his jaw, and he fidgeted with his ear stud.
The small, nervous habit contrasted against the confidence in his posture.
“We got off to a bad start,” he admitted and offered a handshake.
I glared at his hand, and crossed my arms. The Warden-in-Training didn’t seem offended.
“I’m a son of Set. They call me Tariq Hadi. My dad controls war, chaos and storms.” Tariq paused, his voice quieter. “His heirs usually don’t live past birth, and I didn’t.”
I faltered at that.
He offered a crooked smile. A real one.
“So, yeah, being chaos-born means I never saw the mortal world. Crazy, huh?”
I cleared my throat as I tucked a dark curl behind my ear.
“I’m Heba Badran.” I said, “But you already know that since you checked my chart, like, three times.”
“Yeah. I did.” He shrugged, “It’s a habit.”
I smiled.
“You have a lot of habits,” I motioned to his hand still twisting his golden stud.
Tariq froze like he got caught stealing from the gods.
“It helps with... stuff,” he said and let go of his earring.
Ceremonial bells echoed beyond the Revival Chamber and Tariq checked the time.
“13:55. Almost lunch,” his black eyes shifted to the IV drip in my arm. “You’re recovering quickly. They might not have to align your Shuet and Khat, then.”
I snorted. “I’m sure they’re fixed, thanks.”
The bell rang again and footsteps shuffled outside.
Voices echoed through the House of the Second Measure. Laughter, gasps and whispers as demigods moved to the Dining Hall.
Tariq stood and stretched. “I’ll see you around, alright?”
“Maybe,” I admitted.
He smirked. “Yeah, maybe.”