The silence in the grand hall was thick, suffocating. The lifeless body of the guard lay sprawled across the polished limestone, his skin still faintly smoking from whatever unseen force had seized his life.
No one spoke. No one moved. The air was taut with fear, reverence, and something far more insidious—submission.
Azech-I stood above it all, a dark monolith of power, his black and gold robes whispering against the stone as he turned his gaze back to Nofri-it. There was no satisfaction in his face, no triumph in his golden eyes.
Only expectation.
Nofri-it swallowed, his throat dry as the sands beyond the city walls. The memory of Azech-I's touch on his chin still burned—a phantom weight far more dangerous than shackles.
He had spent years trying to forget the way Azech-I had once looked at him. Like he was something treasured.
Now, Azech-I looked at him as if he were something broken.
"Take him to the inner chambers," Azech-I ordered at last, his voice calm, controlled. "He is not to leave until I say otherwise."
The guards hesitated, then moved.
Nofri-it stiffened as rough hands gripped his arms, hauling him to his feet. He expected to be dragged away like an animal, but instead, they merely guided him—firmly, unyieldingly—toward the side doors of the throne room.
His gaze snapped back to Ashan, still kneeling, still bound.
"Ashan," he gritted out, struggling against the guards' grip. "Don't—"
Azech-I stepped into his line of sight, severing the connection between them like a drawn blade. "Your brother remains my guest," he said smoothly. "For now."
The implication settled deep, a quiet, merciless warning.
For now.
Nofri-it's lips pressed into a thin line, his breath coming sharp and shallow. Not here. Not now.
He could not afford to shatter—not under the watchful eyes of the court, not before Azech-I, who would only use it against him.
He tore his gaze away and let himself be led through the towering doors.
The chamber was dimly lit, the golden glow of oil lamps casting long shadows against the stone walls.
It was nothing like the dark, rotting cell he had been kept in for years under Pharaoh Cairo's rule.
No, this was luxury.
The scent of frankincense lingered in the air, mingling with the faintest trace of lotus.
Silk draperies cascaded from the high ceiling, framing a grand sleeping platform adorned with cushions and furs.
A polished basin of water sat in the corner, steaming lightly, while a golden tray of fruits and spiced wine rested nearby.
A prison gilded in wealth.
Nofri-it's stomach twisted.
The guards released him with an almost reverent touch before stepping back, waiting for further orders.
Azech-I had not yet entered, but he would. He always did.
With slow, measured steps, Nofri-it crossed the chamber.
His body still ached from the years of imprisonment, from the chains that had gnawed at his wrists, the hunger that had carved deep into his bones.
But worse than all of it was this.
The familiarity.
The memories surged before he could stop them.
Five years ago—
The moon had been high when Azech-I had first led him here, their bodies tangled in the dim light, whispers of prophecy and fate weaving between their lips.
"Stay," Azech-I had murmured against his skin, his golden eyes dark with something unspoken. "Forget the world outside these walls."
But Nofri-it had not stayed.
And now, he had returned—not as a lover, but as a captive.
A bitter smile curled at his lips. How the gods must laugh.
The door opened.
The air shifted.
Nofri-it turned slowly, already knowing who it would be.
Azech-I stood at the threshold, his form framed by the flickering light. He had removed his ceremonial collar, leaving only the black silk of his robes clinging to his broad frame. He did not move closer. Not yet.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then—
"I should have you killed," Azech-I murmured, his voice a blade sheathed in velvet.
Nofri-it exhaled a quiet, bitter laugh. "Then why don't you?"
Azech-I's eyes gleamed. "Because death is easy."
A step forward. Slow. Deliberate.
"You do not deserve easy."
Nofri-it remained still, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Then what do I deserve?"
Azech-I reached him, fingers brushing against the collar of his robe, tracing the fabric as if considering something.
Then, in one swift motion, he gripped the edge and tore it aside, exposing Nofri-it's collarbone, the faint scars that marred his skin.
Nofri-it did not flinch. He would not give Azech-I that victory.
The Pharaoh studied him, silent, unreadable.
Then, so softly it was almost a whisper—
"You deserve to break."
Nofri-it did not know what shattered first.
The silk beneath Azech-I's grip.
Or the part of him that had once belonged to this man.
To Be Continued...