Chapter ~ Enter

The scent of pomegranate still clung to Nofri-it's lips, a phantom reminder of Azech-I's touch, of the unspoken challenge that now stretched between them.

The court had resumed its revelry, but the energy in the room had shifted—subdued, watchful. No one dared speak too loudly. No one dared look too long. Because no matter how much laughter filled the air, everyone knew—this was no mere display of power.

This was personal.

Azech-I did not need to declare it aloud. His actions had already spoken.

He had returned to his throne, a picture of effortless authority, fingers idly tracing the golden rim of his goblet. But Nofri-it knew he was watching. Even when his gaze flickered toward the dancers, even when he turned his head to speak with a general, even when he lifted his wine to his lips—his attention never truly left the gilded cage at the center of the room.

He was waiting for something.

For Nofri-it to waver.

For the moment his defiance cracked.

But Nofri-it had endured worse.

For five years, he had survived in the depths of Cairo's dungeons, rotting in the dark, stripped of everything but the faint memory of the one man who had once made him feel untouchable.

That man no longer existed.

And if Azech-I thought he could pull him back into that illusion, if he thought mere touch and control could unravel him—

He was wrong.

But then—

The doors of the grand hall burst open.

A hush fell over the court.

The scent of the desert swept in, carried by the night breeze, as a figure stepped into the torchlight.

Tall. Cloaked in dust and leather. Armed.

A general.

One of Azech-I's war commanders, breathless from travel, sand still clinging to his robes. He strode forward, dropping to one knee before the Pharaoh's throne, pressing his fist to his chest in salute.

Azech-I did not move, did not shift, did not even seem surprised by the intrusion.

"Speak," he commanded.

The general lifted his head, expression grim.

"The remnants of Cairo's army have regrouped, Pharaoh," he said, voice clipped with urgency. "They march under a new banner. They refuse to yield."

A murmur rippled through the court.

Azech-I exhaled, slow, measured. Then, he leaned forward, fingers steepling together.

"Who leads them?"

The general hesitated.

Then—

"The one they call Scared Cairo."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Nofri-it's fingers curled around the golden bars.

Cairo was alive.

Not the mighty Pharaoh who had sent him to assassinate Azech-I all those years ago. No, that man had been reduced to nothing. A phantom. A prisoner of war.

But his shadow lingered.

And now, that shadow had begun to rise.

Azech-I's smile was slow, dangerous, amusement flickering in the depths of his golden eyes.

"Scared Cairo," he echoed, as if tasting the name, as if rolling it across his tongue like something bitter and sweet all at once.

Then, his gaze slid back toward Nofri-it.

The weight of it was suffocating.

Because they both knew—

This was not just war.

This was unfinished vengeance.

Azech-I rose, the folds of his obsidian robes shifting like the sands in a storm.

"Prepare the army," he ordered. "We ride at dawn."

The court erupted into motion.

Nofri-it remained still.

The chains at his wrists were light compared to the weight now settling in his chest.

Cairo was alive.

And Azech-I was coming for him.

Not to conquer.

Not to negotiate.

But to end whatever foolish resistance had dared to rise.

And when that war was over—

When Azech-I returned victorious—

Nofri-it knew.

He would be the one to suffer the consequences.

The night stretched on, but there was no rest.

The palace bustled with the quiet, urgent movements of war preparations—messengers slipping through the corridors, generals murmuring strategies behind closed doors, the distant clang of weapons being readied.

And yet, within the grand hall, Azech-I remained.

He had not left his throne.

Had not dismissed the court.

Had not given Nofri-it a single moment of solitude.

The weight of his presence pressed down like an invisible shackle, even when his attention seemed elsewhere.

Even now, as he drank lazily from his goblet, golden eyes half-lidded with thought, he was watching.

Waiting.

Nofri-it knew what he wanted.

For him to break first.

For him to speak.

To beg.

But he would not.

Instead, he sat motionless in his cage, his body aching with exhaustion, his mind sharpening like a blade.

Because he knew Azech-I.

Knew the way he moved, the way he thought, the way his anger did not come in sudden bursts but in slow, calculated waves.

This was not about punishing him for knocking over the food.

This was about reminding him—there was no defiance that would go unanswered.

And so the game stretched between them.

Long, silent, unyielding.

Until—

Azech-I moved.

A single, fluid motion, rising from his throne, setting his goblet down with deliberate ease.

The court quieted as he stepped forward, his presence eclipsing everything else, his gaze fixed solely on Nofri-it.

"You will come with me," he said.

A statement. Not a request.

The guards moved instantly, unlocking the golden cage, unfastening the chains at his wrists and ankles.

Nofri-it did not resist.

But as he stepped out of the cage, he did not lower his gaze either.

Azech-I noticed.

A slow smirk curved his lips.

"Still standing tall," he murmured, fingers brushing against Nofri-it's wrist, as if testing the pulse beneath his skin. "Let us see how long that lasts."

Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward the shadowed corridors of the palace.

Nofri-it followed.

Not because he was told to.

Not because he was afraid.

But because he knew—

This was way far being over.

Chapter Eighteen: The Cage of Gold and Ash (Part 17)

The corridors of the palace stretched endlessly, their towering sandstone walls illuminated by the dim glow of torches. Shadows flickered with each step, stretching long and distorted, as if the very halls whispered secrets long buried beneath the weight of history.

Nofri-it's bare feet barely made a sound against the polished stone, yet each step felt heavier than the last. The weight was not from the golden shackles that had been removed, nor from exhaustion pressing against his bones.

It was the presence walking ahead of him.

Azech-I's stride was slow but deliberate, a predator leading its prey deeper into its den. His robes, black as the abyss, flowed behind him, swallowing the light as if even the flames feared him.

He did not look back.

He did not need to.

Nofri-it knew there was no choice but to follow.

The guards trailed behind, silent as the dead. Not that they were needed—he would not run. There was nowhere to run.

He had known this from the moment he was dragged from Memphis and brought here. From the moment he saw Azech-I's face after five long years and realized—realized that the man who once held him like a treasure now wanted only to break him like a brittle piece of clay.

The walk stretched on, time bending and warping. The path was unfamiliar.

This was not the direction to the dungeons.

Not the direction to the throne room.

Not the harem.

Azech-I was leading him somewhere else.

A place only they would tread.

The realization sent a shiver creeping down Nofri-it's spine, though he masked it beneath a carefully schooled expression. He had endured worse.

But as they stopped before a set of doors—massive, obsidian-carved, inlaid with golden glyphs that shimmered under the firelight—he knew.

This was no mere chamber.

This was Azech-I's sanctum.

His private quarters.

The realization settled, a slow, dangerous thing.

Azech-I lifted a hand. The guards immediately turned on their heels and left without question, their footsteps fading into the vastness of the palace.

Then, without ceremony, Azech-I pushed open the doors.

A rush of cool air greeted them, the scent of burning incense thick and rich—amber, myrrh, something darker lurking beneath.

The chamber within was vast, far more than a place of rest. The ceilings loomed high, etched with constellations painted in gold. Silk-draped canopies framed the space, and in the center stood a low-set dais adorned with cushions and furs, black and crimson, like the colors of war and desire woven together.

The opulence was suffocating.

Yet Nofri-it did not move. Did not flinch.

He had expected a dungeon. A prison. Cold stone and iron bindings.

But this—

This was far more dangerous.

Azech-I finally turned, his golden eyes unreadable, his lips curved in a slow, knowing smirk.

"Enter," he commanded.

Nofri-it hesitated for the first time.

Because he knew.

The true torment would not be chains or cages.

It would be this.

A war fought between skin and breath, between hatred and something neither of them dared name.

And he was stepping straight into it.