Chapter ~ A Throne

A throne.

The word lingered in the air, thick with promise, with something deeper—something unspoken.

Nofri-it did not move.

Azech-I's fingers remained beneath his chin, a feather-light touch that burned hotter than any iron shackle.

Not a cage, he had said.

A throne.

A mocking lie dressed in silk.

Nofri-it met his gaze, unwavering. "And what does a throne mean to a man without a kingdom?"

Azech-I exhaled a soft laugh. "You still do not understand, do you?"

The pad of his thumb brushed against Nofri-it's lower lip, a touch too brief to be anything more than a ghost of possession.

"You were never meant to rule Memphis, Sunu." His voice dipped, reverent and cruel all at once. "You were meant to rule beside me."

Nofri-it's jaw tightened. "You lie."

Azech-I hummed. "Do I?"

His fingers trailed lower, a slow descent from Nofri-it's chin to his throat.

A familiar path.

A path that once led to worship.

Now, to war.

Nofri-it's pulse thrummed beneath Azech-I's touch, an unbidden betrayal of the storm roiling beneath his skin.

He hated that his body still knew Azech-I's hands, that the memories clung to his flesh like a curse.

Azech-I felt it.

He always did.

And he reveled in it.

The hand on Nofri-it's throat tightened, just enough to remind him of the power resting between them.

Just enough to remind him who held the reins now.

"You think I do this to punish you?" Azech-I murmured. "You think I seek to break what is already mine?"

Nofri-it bared his teeth. "I am not yours."

Azech-I's grip flexed—not painful, not yet. But enough.

"Say that again," he whispered.

Nofri-it's breath hitched.

For a moment, just a moment, silence stretched between them, thick as smoke, heavy as stone.

Then—

Nofri-it wrenched himself free.

It was reckless. Desperate. A move he would have never made in the past.

But the past no longer existed.

The moment his skin left Azech-I's grasp, the world seemed to shudder—

The torches flickered.

The silence turned sharp.

Azech-I remained still.

Unmoving. Unfazed.

His gaze followed Nofri-it's retreat, unreadable, dangerous.

Then, slowly—too slowly—he leaned back, the weight of his presence settling into the cushions like a predator amused by its prey's defiance.

The corner of his lips lifted.

"Good," he murmured, voice like molten gold. "You still have fight left in you."

Nofri-it clenched his fists. "Do not mistake defiance for surrender."

Azech-I's smirk widened. "Oh, I never would."

He lifted a hand, gesturing toward the grand chamber doors.

The meaning was clear.

Go.

Nofri-it hesitated.

This was new.

Azech-I had never once given him the choice to leave.

Not when he had first been dragged back to Thebes, not when the gilded chains had replaced iron shackles.

Not when his every breath had been dictated by Azech-I's whims.

And yet—

The door remained open.

A test.

A trap.

Nofri-it knew this game well.

Still, he rose.

Still, he walked.

Step by step, until his fingers brushed against the cold metal of the chamber doors.

He could leave.

He could.

And yet—

A voice, deep and steady, stopped him in his tracks.

"You were always meant to return to me, Nofri-it."

A shiver crawled down his spine.

Slowly, he turned his head.

Azech-I had not moved.

But his eyes—

They burned.

With what, Nofri-it could not name.

He did not respond.

Did not let his body betray him again.

Instead, he pushed the doors open, stepping into the cold corridors beyond.

A breath escaped him.

Not relief.

Not yet.

Because no matter how many doors he walked through—

Azech-I's shadow would follow.

The corridors of the palace stretched endlessly before him, each step echoing in the cold silence. Nofri-it's breath came slow and measured, but the tremor in his fingers betrayed him.

He had walked out of that chamber. He had stepped past Azech-I's reach, past the burning weight of his gaze.

And yet, he was not free.

The golden cuffs around his wrists gleamed under the torchlight, a quiet reminder of his place. They were not shackles, not in the way Cairo's iron chains had been.

But they bound him all the same.

Guards stood at a distance, watching but unmoving. They had long learned that Azech-I did not need bars to keep his captive caged.

Nofri-it exhaled, slow. Controlled.

He had left the room, but the air of Thebes was still heavy with Azech-I's presence. It clung to the pillars, the stone, the very walls of the grand palace that once belonged to kings of old.

It had belonged to rulers long before Azech-I—

And now it belonged to a man who had carved his reign in blood.

The breath he had stolen came back in a shuddering exhale.

He should keep walking.

And yet—

He turned his head, just slightly, back toward the chamber doors.

Still ajar. Still open, as if mocking his retreat.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

He had left.

Why did it feel like he had only sunk deeper?

A shadow moved at the edge of his vision.

Nofri-it stilled.

He knew better than to mistake it for paranoia. He had spent too many years being hunted, too many nights knowing the weight of unseen eyes.

A flash of gold. The faint rustle of robes.

Not a guard.

Not a servant.

Someone who did not want to be seen.

A test, then.

Nofri-it's lips curled. If they wanted him unaware, they had miscalculated.

He took another step, purposefully slow, allowing his shoulders to remain loose, his stride steady. If they thought him blind to their presence—good.

Let them think so.

He walked past the grand pillars, past the golden brazier burning with fragrant oil, past the murals of gods watching from the stone.

Then—

He moved.

A sharp turn, a quiet pivot of his heel, and his hand lashed out.

Fingers curled around fabric, yanking the figure forward—

A gasp.

Small. Too soft to belong to a soldier.

His grip loosened, but not by much. His eyes met the figure's, and recognition struck fast and deep.

A boy.

No older than twelve summers, clothed in the simple robes of a temple servant, though his face was marked with something sharper than innocence.

He should have let go.

But something in the boy's eyes stopped him.

They were wide—not with fear, but with something else.

Urgency.

"Let me go," the boy whispered.

Nofri-it did not.

"Why are you following me?"

The boy glanced to the side, toward the open corridor, toward the shadows where the guards still stood.

"Not here," he said, voice barely above a breath. "If they see me, I will be—"

He stopped himself.

Nofri-it's grip finally loosened, but he did not let go completely.

"Speak."

The boy's chest rose and fell quickly, eyes darting between the pillars.

Then, finally—

"Pharaoh Cairo sends word," he whispered, voice taut with warning. "He says it is not over."

The words hit sharper than any blade.

A chill curled down Nofri-it's spine.

Not over.

Five years in Cairo's dungeons, five years shackled in the dark. Five years spent believing that whatever war had begun had long since burned to ash.

And now—

His breath stilled.

No.

It had only begun.