Chapter ~ Shifting Sands

The air between them thickened, a slow suffocation beneath the weight of unspoken things.

Azech-I did not release him.

He did not need to.

His presence alone was a noose.

Nofri-it had spent years in darkness, in a place where hands meant harm, where every touch was meant to break.

And now—this.

A bath, warm and perfumed. A gilded prison instead of an iron one. A hand on his skin that did not strike, only pressed, only lingered.

His body did not know how to respond.

His mind screamed at him to fight, to thrash, to sink beneath the water and never rise again.

But his body—

It betrayed him.

It remembered what Azech-I's touch had once been.

Once.

Before the war. Before the dungeons. Before the agony of five lost years.

Before this.

"You are quiet," Azech-I murmured, thumb tracing circles against Nofri-it's wrist. "Have you nothing to say?"

Nofri-it's jaw clenched.

What did the Pharaoh expect?

Did he want him to beg? To spit in his face?

To speak the words they both already knew?

That Nofri-it had been sent to kill him. That he had failed. That he had suffered because of it.

That all of this—his frail body, his shattered mind, the war that now loomed over Memphis—was Azech-I's doing.

The moment he had refused to die, the moment he had dared to fall in love with his enemy, the moment he had disappeared—

The moment he had left Azech-I hunting a ghost.

And yet, even now—

Even now, after everything—

Azech-I touched him as if he were something that still belonged to him.

As if he had a right to.

"I have no words to waste on you," Nofri-it rasped, throat raw.

Azech-I's lips quirked, but the amusement did not reach his eyes.

"Then I shall speak for us both."

The fingers on his wrist trailed upward, slow, deliberate.

A test. A reminder.

Nofri-it remained still.

Not out of submission.

But because he would not let Azech-I see his limbs weaken.

Azech-I hummed, as if considering something, before—

His grip tightened.

Not painful. Not yet.

But enough.

Enough for Nofri-it to feel the shift in control, the invisible leash tightening around his throat.

"You once moved like a lion," Azech-I mused, his voice almost fond. "But now you are nothing more than a caged thing, a whisper of what you were."

Nofri-it's breath came sharp.

There it was.

The cut beneath the silk.

He should have expected it.

"You mistake weakness for defeat, Pharaoh," he bit out, forcing steel into his voice. "I may be caged, but a lion does not forget its fangs."

Silence.

Then—

Azech-I laughed.

A deep, rich sound, but cold. So very, very cold.

"Then bite me," he whispered. "If you still can."

His hand moved higher, along Nofri-it's shoulder, fingers curling—

And for the first time, Nofri-it did move.

Not to attack.

Not to escape.

But to lift his own hand, slow, shaking, the weight of years pressing down—

And he placed it over Azech-I's wrist.

A moment passed.

Stillness.

The water rippled around them, the only sound their shallow breaths, the distant flicker of oil lamps.

Azech-I did not pull away.

Neither did Nofri-it.

And for a fleeting second—

Just a single heartbeat—

It felt like something else entirely.

Like something they had lost.

Like something that had once been theirs.

But then—

Azech-I's fingers flexed against his skin, and the moment shattered.

"Ah," the Pharaoh murmured, voice soft as silk. "So you do remember."

And Nofri-it—

Nofri-it hated how much he did.

The moment collapsed around them like shifting sands.

Nofri-it should have moved away. Should have twisted out of Azech-I's hold, should have bared his teeth, should have spat venom in his face.

But he did nothing.

Not because he lacked the will.

But because Azech-I's fingers on his wrist, against his throat, against his skin—

They were the only things grounding him in this nightmare.

A nightmare where he was no longer the lion, only the prey.

"Do you fear me now, Nofri-it?" Azech-I's voice was a whisper, the soft scrape of a dagger against flesh. "Or do you fear yourself more?"

Nofri-it exhaled, slow and sharp. "I fear nothing."

Azech-I hummed. A mockery of thoughtfulness.

"You are lying."

The fingers on his wrist shifted—trailing up, along the pale ridges of his forearm, over the bruises left by chains, the scars left by years in the dark.

And then—

Then they stopped.

Right over his pulse.

The steady thrum beneath his skin.

Alive.

Still alive.

Still breathing, after everything.

Azech-I's thumb brushed against it, just once, like a man testing the fragility of something in his grasp.

And Nofri-it—

He hated the way his breath hitched.

Azech-I's gaze darkened, unreadable.

He did not speak.

Not yet.

But his fingers tightened—just barely, just enough for Nofri-it to feel the unspoken promise lingering between them.

A promise of pain. Of retribution. Of something else, darker, buried beneath layers of anger and longing.

And then, as if struck by something unseen, Azech-I's hand fell away.

The loss of touch was immediate, jarring.

Nofri-it told himself it was a relief.

It was not.

"Rest," Azech-I said at last, rising from the edge of the bath. "You are still too weak to fight me."

Nofri-it bared his teeth. "And yet you are the one walking away."

Azech-I stilled.

Just for a moment.

Then—

A smirk, sharp as a blade. "For now."

And then he was gone, leaving Nofri-it alone in the warm, perfumed water.

The silence rushed back in.

And Nofri-it, for the first time in years, could feel the ghost of Azech-I's touch lingering on his skin.

It burned.

The water around Nofri-it felt heavier now, like the weight of unseen chains dragging him into the abyss.

He should not have let Azech-I touch him.

Not like that. Not with that quiet patience, that knowing gaze.

That was not how conquerors touched their prisoners.

That was not how kings touched the men they meant to break.

And yet, Azech-I had never been predictable. Never played by the rules of cruelty that Nofri-it had come to know in Cairo's dungeons.

No—his cruelty was precise.

He knew where to touch, where to linger, where to pull away.

Leaving Nofri-it grasping at empty air.

It was worse than the pain.

A shaky breath left his lips, rippling across the water's surface.

He should get out.

The heat was making him lightheaded, the scent of myrrh thick in his lungs, clinging to his damp skin.

But he remained still, half-submerged, watching his own reflection distort and shift in the flickering lamplight.

A stranger looked back at him.

Hollow-eyed. Gaunt. A shadow of the man who had once prowled Thebes with silent, lethal grace.

Once.

He had been something once.

Someone.

A lion at Azech-I's side, not a caged thing waiting to be tamed.

And yet—

Five years had stripped him of his fangs.

And Azech-I—

Azech-I knew it.

A muscle in Nofri-it's jaw twitched.

This was what Azech-I wanted, wasn't it?

To make him remember.

To make him feel.

To make him weak in ways that no chain, no cage, no dungeon ever could.

But he would not yield.

Not now. Not ever.

With a sharp inhale, Nofri-it gripped the edge of the bath and forced himself upright.

The cool air struck his skin, a stark contrast to the heated water, but he welcomed it.

Welcomed the clarity that came with discomfort.

A servant rushed forward with a linen robe, but he ignored them, stepping out of the marble bath with slow, deliberate movements.

His body protested.

The years of torment whispered in the ache of his limbs, the slight tremor in his fingers.

But he refused to falter.

He would not let Azech-I see a man broken.

Not when the war had only just begun.

Not when vengeance still called his name.

When Nofri-it finally returned to the chamber, the night had deepened.

The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, curling in slow tendrils around the gilded columns.

And there—

There Azech-I sat.

Waiting.

Watching.

His dark robes melted into the golden cushions, his broad frame relaxed, one arm draped over the side as if he were a man who owned everything within his reach.

Which, perhaps, he did.

His eyes flicked up as Nofri-it entered.

A slow drag of his gaze, lingering at the damp strands of hair clinging to his skin, the faint sheen of water still glistening along his collarbone.

Something unreadable flickered across his face.

But it was gone too quickly to name.

"You took your time," Azech-I murmured.

Nofri-it did not respond.

Instead, he walked forward, slow, purposeful, the trailing ends of his robe whispering against the polished stone floor.

Azech-I's lips curled, amusement dancing at the edges of his mouth.

"You always did have a flair for dramatics."

Nofri-it stopped before him.

Still. Silent.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Only the flicker of torchlight moved between them.

Then—

Nofri-it lowered himself onto his knees.

Deliberately.

Azech-I's smirk did not falter, but something in his gaze sharpened.

Nofri-it's voice was a whisper, cold and quiet.

"You want a lion in a cage, Pharaoh?"

A pause.

A breath.

A heartbeat.

Then—

Azech-I leaned forward, fingers brushing the underside of Nofri-it's chin.

"Not a cage," he murmured.

"A throne."