For centuries, Egypt stood unchallenged, its borders secured by both divine will and mortal steel. At the heart of this mortal defense stood Osiris's chosen commanders, warriors of unparalleled skill who led Egypt's armies with unwavering loyalty.
Among them, one name rose above all others:Memnon – The Blade of Egypt.
His legend was whispered in every war camp, sung in the streets of Thebes, and etched in the records of time. Memnon, the greatest swordsman the world had ever seen. His strikes were as swift as a falcon's dive, as precise as the stars in the night sky. He had dueled entire battalions alone, danced through enemy ranks like a desert storm, and never—not once—had he been bested in combat.
He was a warrior favored by Osiris himself, rewarded with wealth, glory, and a place among the greatest of men.
For decades, Memnon stood as Egypt's greatest mortal warrior, a commander so skilled that even the gods whispered his name with admiration. His blade had cut down invaders, secured Egypt's borders, and won him glory, wealth, and a place at Osiris's side.
But loyalty can decay, and ambition can poison the heart.
When Set struck down Osiris, nearly killing him before the eyes of thousands, something in Memnon changed. He saw, for the first time, that gods could bleed. That they were not invincible. That Egypt, his Egypt, had been left vulnerable.
And he began to wonder:
Why should the gods rule, when a man like him could do better?
Memnon knew the divine secrets—he had served beside gods, dined with them, fought under their banners. He knew that the Egyptian pantheon had a way to make mortals into gods.
That secret lay with Hathor's sacred cow, Hesat, whose divine milk could transform mere men into immortals.
With Osiris weakened, and Horus away, battling Apophis, Memnon saw his moment.
First, he began whispering in the ears of war chiefs, discontented generals, and ambitious nobles. He enslaved war tribes, conquered border kingdoms, and forced their warriors into his growing army. His words were poison, convincing them that the gods had grown weak, that Egypt was ready for a mortal ruler.
"We were the ones who bled for Egypt! We were the ones who built its walls, defended its people! And yet, we are beneath them? No more!"
In the shadows of the great temples, his forces plotted. And soon, Memnon's rebellion began.
For months, Isis and Hathor had worked tirelessly to restore Egypt from the devastation left in the wake of Set's rebellion. The temples had been rebuilt, the floodplains restored, and the people reassured that order had returned.
But order is an illusion when darkness lurks unseen.
Neither goddess had foreseen the whispers of treachery, the slow but calculated rise of Memnon's rebellion.
Until there prophet was captured by Memnon.
Merlin stood in the grand hall of the celestial palace, gazing into the golden fire of an enchanted brazier, deep in thought. He had sensed the shifting tides of fate—something was coming, something that threatened both mortals and gods alike.
Then, the air hummed with divine power.
A golden light flooded the chamber, followed by the soft, radiant glow of blue and white energy. The scent of lotus blossoms and ancient incense filled the air as the very fabric of reality rippled and bent.
From within the light, two figures emerged—Isis and Hathor, their divine forms bathed in an ethereal glow.
Isis, regal and poised, her golden wings unfurled, gleamed like polished sunstone, each feather etched with hieroglyphs of ancient wisdom. Her eyes, dark as the depths of the Nile, carried both the weight of eternity and an urgent plea.
Hathor followed, the goddess of love and joy, adorned in flowing silk that shimmered like liquid gold. A gentle smile touched her lips as she gazed at Merlin—her lover.
But Isis' expression remained solemn. To her, Merlin was like a son, and tonight, she came not with affection, but with a burden.
She stepped forward, her voice commanding yet filled with sorrow."Merlin."
He straightened, sensing the weight of her words before she even spoke them.
"Egypt is facing another rebellion."
Silence fell. The flickering braziers around them cast shifting shadows on the obsidian walls, their glow reflecting the uncertainty of the times.
Merlin sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Another?" His tone was laced with exhaustion but also a sharp readiness for battle.
Merlin sighed and muttered"I suspected as much." He arched an eyebrow. "So what is the matter?."
Hathor nodded, stepping beside Isis. "Memnon has taken the Prophetess Cassandra. His ambitions have become clear—he seeks to claim Hesat's divine milk and ascend beyond mortality. And overthrow the gods"
Merlin frowned. "And you cannot stop him yourselves."
The goddesses exchanged glances.
"The laws bind us," Isis admitted. "Direct intervention with mortals is forbidden. But you…" Her gaze narrowed, her voice laced with purpose. "You are not bound by such laws."
Merlin exhaled slowly, his mind already racing. Divine laws were… tricky.
A game of fate and interpretation.
The gods spoke of rules, yet history was filled with exceptions. The Trojan War—the Greek gods had directly intervened, taking sides, fighting, and even walking the battlefield. Fate had allowed it.
Then there was Osiris. He ruled Egypt not as a tyrant, not even as a king, but as a guide, a living god who shaped destiny without shattering balance.
So where did Memnon's rebellion fall?
Merlin's fingers curled into a fist. This was a gray area.
Hathor stepped closer, her golden bracelets glinting in the firelight. "We would not ask this of you if it were not necessary. It's best to cut of Memnon's rebellion quickly. "
"Very well," Merlin said at last, his tone serious. "I will find Cassandra. I will stop Memnon."