Chapter ~ Provocation

Nofri-it stepped forward.

Azech-I did not move from the threshold, forcing him to brush past. The briefest graze of fabric against skin, a whisper of warmth, but it was enough to remind him—this was no battlefield of steel and blood.

This was something far crueler.

The doors shut behind him with a hollow thud, sealing them inside.

The chamber was unlike anything he had seen before, even in Thebes, even in all the lavish courts of kings. It was not merely a room—it was a world carved in luxury and shadow.

Gold and obsidian, furs and silks, the lingering scent of burning incense that seemed to coil in the air like a living thing. Everything here was designed to soothe, to intoxicate.

To ensnare.

His gaze flicked to the low dais at the center of the room—the only seating apart from the elaborate bed draped in dark linen.

Azech-I strode past him, shedding his outer robe with a slow, deliberate ease, draping it over a carved onyx stand. Beneath it, his chest was bare, adorned only with a heavy collar of gold, inlaid with lapis lazuli and the ancient sigils of his divine lineage.

The markings of a man blessed by the gods.

Or cursed by them.

Nofri-it did not let his gaze linger.

"You remain silent," Azech-I murmured, turning to face him. "Have you nothing to say?"

Nofri-it lifted his chin, though the weight of exhaustion still clung to his limbs. "What is there to say?"

Azech-I's smirk deepened, but there was no amusement in his gaze. Only something sharp, assessing. "You were once quite skilled at speaking when it suited you. Whispering lies. Promises you never intended to keep."

A pause. The air thickened.

"Or was it that you did keep them—until you fled like a coward?"

Nofri-it's fingers curled into his palms. "I did not flee."

Azech-I took a single step forward.

The space between them shrank.

"Then tell me," he murmured, voice smooth as velvet, dark as night. "What did you do?"

The silence between them was a battlefield.

For a moment, just a moment, Nofri-it considered answering.

The truth. The five years in the dungeons of Memphis. The chains that carved into his wrists, the stench of rotting stone, the suffocating dark.

The punishments.

The betrayal.

But what would it change?

Nothing.

Azech-I had already chosen his version of the truth.

And Nofri-it—Nofri-it was too tired to fight it.

So instead, he said nothing.

Azech-I's expression did not shift. But something in his gaze flickered—so brief it was gone before Nofri-it could grasp it.

Then, as if nothing had passed between them at all, Azech-I turned away.

A slow, deliberate motion.

"You will bathe," he said, his tone no longer taunting but absolute, commanding. "And then, you will eat."

Nofri-it remained still. "I am not hungry."

Azech-I did not turn. "Then you will eat because I said so."

Something about those words—the sheer certainty in them—unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Azech-I had taken everything.

His freedom. His dignity.

And now, he would take even this—the simple act of choosing whether to eat, to wash, to exist on his own terms.

It was not the cruelty of a tyrant.

It was the cruelty of a man who wanted him to break slowly.

Not with whips.

Not with shackles.

But with the knowledge that he belonged to him.

And so, without another word, Nofri-it stepped forward, past the dais, past the glimmer of golden torchlight, and toward the chamber beyond.

A place of warm water, perfumed oils—of temptation wrapped in luxury.

The first step of a game far more dangerous than war.

The bathing chamber was a world of its own.

Golden sconces cast a flickering glow over the still water of a sunken pool, the edges carved with intricate hieroglyphs of battles long won, of gods watching from the heavens. Steam curled lazily into the air, carrying the scent of lotus, myrrh, and something else—something darker, unnameable.

It was warm. Too warm.

And too silent.

Nofri-it stood at the edge, his reflection wavering beneath him, the surface almost unnervingly still.

A bath. A luxury he had not known in five years.

For a moment—just a moment—his body betrayed him. The thought of sinking into warmth, of shedding the filth of Memphis' dungeons, of washing away the weight of chains and cold—

It was a cruelty in itself.

Because this was not freedom.

This was not his choice.

It was Azech-I's.

"You hesitate."

The voice was smooth, rich, an undercurrent of something unreadable beneath it.

Nofri-it turned his head just slightly.

Azech-I stood at the threshold, arms crossed, watching him like one might watch an offering laid before the gods. His golden eyes gleamed in the dim light, half-shadowed, half-illuminated.

He had not left.

Of course, he had not.

The realization coiled in Nofri-it's chest like a snake tightening around his ribs.

Azech-I was not merely granting him comfort. He was watching him take it.

Mocking him with it.

Because after five years, his body craved this. His skin longed for the warmth of water, for the cleansing embrace of something other than dust and darkness.

Azech-I knew this.

And he wanted Nofri-it to know it too.

"I did not realize," Nofri-it said, voice carefully even, "that Pharaohs had nothing better to do than observe their captives bathe."

Azech-I chuckled—a low, dark sound. "You misunderstand." He stepped forward, slow, unhurried, closing the space between them. "It is not observation I intend."

The words sent a shiver down Nofri-it's spine, though he fought to keep his posture rigid.

"You have spent five years in filth," Azech-I continued, his voice almost thoughtful. "It would be an insult to my court for you to remain so."

A pause. A deliberate, drawn-out silence.

Then—

"I will cleanse you myself."

The words were spoken without jest, without cruelty.

But they struck like a dagger between Nofri-it's ribs.

He turned sharply. "I do not require—"

Azech-I's fingers brushed the base of his throat.

A touch. Light, fleeting. But it silenced him far more effectively than chains ever had.

"You do not require?" Azech-I murmured, head tilting slightly. "And yet you stand here, unmoving, unable to take the first step alone."

His fingers drifted lower, trailing over Nofri-it's collarbone, barely a ghost of contact, but enough to remind him—

This was not about cleansing.

This was about power.

Not the power of war, nor the power of bloodshed.

The power of control.

And Nofri-it—who had spent five years fighting to hold onto the last remnants of his own will—knew the danger of surrendering to this particular game.

Because it would not be through pain that Azech-I would break him.

It would be through this.

Through hands that no longer struck, but touched.

Through kindness that was no kindness at all.

And yet, despite himself—despite the war raging in his mind—he did not pull away.

Azech-I's lips curled into the faintest smirk.

"Good," he murmured.

And then, with slow, unyielding patience, he reached for the ties of Nofri-it's robe.

The fabric slid from his shoulders, a whisper of silk against skin, light yet suffocating in its weight.

Nofri-it did not move.

He told himself it was because he would not give Azech-I the satisfaction of seeing him falter, that he would not recoil like some frightened creature.

But the truth was crueler.

The truth was that he had forgotten how it felt to be touched by something other than iron and cruelty.

Azech-I's fingers traced the curve of his shoulder, deceptively gentle, a ghost of heat in the cool air of the chamber.

"You are thinner than I remember."

The words slithered through the silence, neither taunting nor pitying. Just… stating.

Nofri-it clenched his jaw. He would not respond. He would not react.

Because what was there to say?

That starvation does that to a man? That five years in Cairo's dungeons had stolen more than just flesh from his bones?

That every rib Azech-I could now see was carved by suffering?

No.

He would say nothing.

Let Azech-I look. Let him see what had become of the lover he once claimed. Let him wonder if this broken thing before him still resembled the warrior who had once sworn to end his life.

Let him choke on his own victory.

Azech-I's touch lingered before slipping away, and for a brief, terrible moment, Nofri-it almost shivered at the loss.

The silence stretched between them, heavy, expectant.

Then—

"Step in."

A command. Soft, yet unyielding.

Nofri-it hesitated, gaze flickering toward the water.

It should not feel like a battlefield.

And yet, as he took the first step, it did.

The water rose around his ankles, then his calves, then higher, heat licking at his skin like a beast swallowing him whole.

A sigh almost escaped him.

Almost.

But he bit it back, refusing to give Azech-I even that.

He sank deeper, the water rising past his ribs, his shoulders, until only his head remained above the surface.

For a moment, there was silence.

No chains. No damp stone walls.

Just warmth. Just… weightlessness.

He closed his eyes.

And then he felt it—

A hand.

Slipping beneath the water.

Nofri-it's eyes snapped open.

Azech-I was there, knee-deep in the pool, the hem of his robes darkened by the water, his gaze unreadable as his fingers found their way to Nofri-it's arm.

It was only then that he realized—

He was shaking.

The warmth of the bath, the foreign touch, the sheer foreignness of everything—his body did not know whether to tense or to melt.

And Azech-I?

He was watching.

He was always watching.

A predator who had all the time in the world to unravel his prey.

"Five years," Azech-I murmured, fingers skimming the ridges of Nofri-it's wrist, where old scars told stories neither of them spoke of. "And yet, you still react as though I mean to strike you."

Nofri-it's breath hitched.

Azech-I's grip tightened—just slightly.

Not enough to hurt.

But enough to remind him.

"You once said you feared nothing," Azech-I continued, voice as smooth as desert sand. "Yet here you are, trembling beneath my touch."

Nofri-it willed himself to still. To force control back into his body.

He lifted his chin, meeting Azech-I's gaze with a defiance that had not yet been extinguished.

"It is not fear," he said, his voice hoarse from disuse.

Azech-I's lips curled, slow, knowing.

"No?"

And then—

His fingers slid lower, tracing the sharp jut of Nofri-it's hip beneath the water.

A test. A provocation.

Nofri-it did not flinch.

He would not flinch.

He met Azech-I's gaze head-on, unyielding.

"If you mean to toy with me, Pharaoh, then do so." His voice was steady, despite the storm inside him. "But do not mistake my silence for submission."

Azech-I's grip stilled.

Then—

A low, dark chuckle.

It rumbled through the chamber, through the water, through Nofri-it's very bones.

And when Azech-I finally spoke, his voice was a whisper against the steam-heavy air—

"Then let us see how long that silence lasts."