The silence that followed Azech-I's departure was deafening. The weight of a hundred gazes pressed down on Nofri-it, but he did not bow his head. He sat motionless in the gilded cage, his back straight, his hands resting on his knees, refusing to betray a flicker of weakness.
Yet his body ached.
Five years in Cairo's dungeons had turned his once-powerful form into something frail, a shadow of the warrior he had been. He could still feel the phantom touch of shackles against his wrists, the burn of iron that had worn his skin raw.
And now, he was caged once more.
The irony was bitter.
The courtiers murmured amongst themselves, some in amusement, others in intrigue.
"He was once Cairo's most feared assassin," one whispered. "And now he is nothing more than a pet beneath the Pharaoh's throne."
"Perhaps he will be made an offering to the gods," another mused. "Azech-I has not been known to be merciful to those who betray him."
"No," a woman's voice chimed in, smooth and knowing. "This is no punishment. It is possession. The Pharaoh has claimed him, and that is far crueler than death."
Nofri-it's fingers curled against his knees.
He had known. Even when Azech-I's fury had burned through the sands, when his armies had stormed through the lands in search of him, he had known that death was never the price Azech-I would demand.
This—this—was the true punishment.
To be placed at Azech-I's feet. To be forced to watch him rule, to see him take others to his bed, to have his once-lover gaze upon him as nothing more than a possession.
It was not pain that Azech-I wanted to inflict. It was something far worse.
A slow unraveling.
The doors to the great hall swung open, and Nofri-it felt the shift in the air before he saw Azech-I return.
Golden-skinned, eyes burning like molten amber, he was a vision of power. The heavy jewelry adorning his chest gleamed under the torchlight, his royal blue kilt swaying with each deliberate step.
But what made Nofri-it's breath catch—what sent ice slithering through his veins—was not Azech-I's presence alone.
It was the woman at his side.
Tall, regal, with eyes the color of crushed onyx. She was draped in sheer white linen, her arms adorned with serpent-shaped bangles, her lips painted the deep red of pomegranate seeds.
One of Azech-I's consorts.
And she was laughing.
At him.
The sting of humiliation burned in his throat, but he remained still.
Azech-I ascended his throne, the golden chain attached to Nofri-it's collar shifting as he moved. With an almost lazy motion, he sat, draping one arm over the back of his seat, his gaze settling upon Nofri-it.
There was a long, deliberate pause.
Then—
"Fetch me wine," Azech-I ordered.
The words were not directed at a servant.
They were meant for him.
A test. A demand. A command issued not to the prince he once loved, but to the pet kneeling at his feet.
The court waited, watching.
Nofri-it's blood roared in his ears.
He could refuse. He could sit in defiance, let Azech-I's rage crash down upon him, let the Pharaoh see that he would not be broken so easily.
Or—
He could rise. Take the cup. Serve his master as expected.
Azech-I was waiting.
The moment stretched into eternity.
Then, slowly, without a word, Nofri-it reached for the goblet.
Azech-I smiled.
And in that moment, Nofri-it realized—
He had already lost the first battle.
The weight of the goblet was insignificant in Nofri-it's grasp, yet it felt heavier than the chains around his wrists. A thousand memories surged through him at once—of another time, another life, when his hands had traced the ridges of Azech-I's spine instead of carrying his wine like a lowly servant.
He had once held Azech-I's heart in his palm. Now, he held a cup.
He rose to his feet with a grace he barely possessed anymore, his weakened body betraying him with the smallest tremor. But he would not stumble. He would not show how the past five years had hollowed him out.
A slow hush fell over the court as he moved, their expectant eyes drinking in the sight of the once-feared shadow of Cairo reduced to this—servitude beneath the Pharaoh's throne.
Azech-I leaned back, fingers tapping lazily against the golden armrest of his seat.
Nofri-it stopped at the steps leading up to the dais, lifting the goblet with both hands, an offering, an unspoken defiance.
The distance between them had never felt so vast.
Azech-I did not reach for the wine immediately. He let the silence stretch, as if savoring the moment, as if waiting to see if Nofri-it would break beneath the weight of it.
Then, finally, he moved.
But instead of taking the cup, he grasped Nofri-it's wrist.
A sharp intake of breath. Not from Nofri-it, but from those watching.
Azech-I's fingers pressed against his pulse, feeling the weak rhythm beneath fragile skin.
His eyes flickered with something unreadable—something dark.
"Still alive," he murmured, tilting his head. "I was beginning to think Cairo had already stolen that from me."
Nofri-it's grip on the goblet tightened, but he said nothing. His heart thundered in his chest, but his expression remained carved from stone.
Azech-I smirked. A cruel, knowing thing.
He took the cup from Nofri-it's hands but did not drink. Instead, he shifted, raising it toward the woman beside him—the consort, the one who had laughed at Nofri-it's humiliation.
"Drink," Azech-I commanded her.
A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but she obeyed. She took a small sip, her lips leaving a faint red stain on the rim.
Azech-I's gaze never left Nofri-it's.
A test.
Nofri-it had been trained in poisons since childhood. He knew what Azech-I was doing. If Nofri-it had intended to kill him, the wine would have been tainted. If the consort drank and remained unharmed, it would prove Nofri-it had no such intentions.
But the real cruelty was in the gesture itself.
Azech-I was reminding him of what he was now. A prisoner. A servant. A conquered thing.
The consort handed the goblet back, and only then did Azech-I lift it to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip.
Nofri-it watched as his throat moved, the golden chain between them shifting with even the smallest motion.
The tension in the hall was suffocating.
Then, with a satisfied hum, Azech-I set the cup aside and leaned forward.
"Good," he murmured, voice low enough that only Nofri-it could hear. "You still know your place."
Heat coiled in Nofri-it's chest—rage, shame, something dangerous and unspoken.
But he swallowed it down.
He lowered himself back into the cage without a word.
The golden bars shut around him once more.
And Azech-I, victorious, returned to his throne, watching him with the satisfaction of a predator who had finally caught his prey.
The court resumed its murmur, the tension dispersing into quiet laughter and hushed speculation. The spectacle was over—for now. But Nofri-it could still feel the weight of their gazes, the amusement laced with cruel curiosity.
Once, he had been feared. A shadow in the night, Cairo's silent blade.
Now, he was nothing but a curiosity in a cage.
Azech-I lounged upon his throne, his fingers idly toying with the golden chain between them, giving it a slight, deliberate tug—just enough to remind Nofri-it that he was bound.
Nofri-it did not flinch.
The hall had returned to its lavish entertainment—musicians plucking strings, dancers moving in slow, hypnotic circles. Servants flitted about, filling goblets, placing bowls of ripe dates and honeyed figs before the guests.
But Nofri-it remained still, his mind retreating into the past.
—Five Years Ago—
The air had smelled of myrrh and sandalwood, thick with the heat of a Theban night. They had lain tangled in silk sheets, limbs intertwined, Azech-I's breath fanning against Nofri-it's neck.
"You are mine," Azech-I had whispered against his skin, voice heavy with sleep and possessive warmth. "Even if the gods themselves stand against us, you will remain mine."
Nofri-it had laughed then, soft and teasing, running his fingers through Azech-I's dark curls. "Such arrogance. What if I choose otherwise?"
Azech-I had shifted above him, the gold of his collar catching the moonlight. "Then I will make you choose me."
Fingertips tracing his jaw. Lips brushing over his throat. The promise of devotion woven between kisses, between nights spent in secret, between the fragile illusion that they could exist beyond war and duty.
He had believed it.
How foolish he had been.
—Now—
The taste of the past turned bitter on his tongue.
Azech-I had not forgotten. No—he had chosen to remember in the cruelest of ways, by turning his love into chains, by caging him like a beast for his court to gawk at.
But beneath the torment, beneath the spectacle, Nofri-it saw the glint in Azech-I's eyes.
This was not just about punishment.
It was about possession.
A war was still being waged between them, even if Nofri-it was no longer holding a blade.
And if Azech-I thought he had won—thought that Nofri-it would kneel so easily—he was gravely mistaken.
A deep, slow breath.
He would endure. He would wait.
Because even a caged lion did not forget how to bare its fangs.