The Pharaoh’s Wrath

The Pharaoh’s Wrath

The sky over the battlefield darkened as if the gods themselves had turned their backs on the world. Heavy clouds, swirling like an ominous vortex, hung low over the horizon, casting a shadow over Nefertari’s dwindling forces. The ground beneath them trembled with the distant roar of approaching doom.

Nefertari stood atop a ridge, her armor battered and dented, her face streaked with dirt and blood. Below, the remnants of her army struggled to form ranks. She could see the fear in their eyes, their bodies sagging with exhaustion after days of relentless battle. Morale was cracking, and she felt it too—the creeping doubt that gnawed at her soul, the sinking feeling that this war, her war, might already be lost.

But she had no time for despair. Not yet. Not until she had nothing left to give.