Chapter Seven

He was seventeen now.

Puberty had carved him with the patience of a sculptor. His shoulders had broadened, his limbs—once coltish and uncertain—now moved with the grace and purpose of a drawn blade. The endless hours beneath the desert sun, in the training yard and under the stern eyes of silent masters, had honed him into something regal. Something formidable. A boy no longer—this was a body worthy of a Pharaoh.

He had let his hair grow. Dark and thick, it was tied back with leather during sparring, but loose when he walked the gardens or stood atop the palace terraces. Wind caught it like silk, sunlight gilding each strand until it shone like obsidian licked by flame.

Nakhtira had watched the change unfold.

She had witnessed the slow, relentless transformation—stretched across years, rituals, and silent acts of will. The boy who once fled their wedding bed now moved like a statue breathed to life, sculpted from sun and stone.

She no longer waited for him at night.

Not once had he come to her, not as husband, not even in the name of duty. But they dined together, as courtesy required. Their conversations drifted from polite to philosophical, never intimate. They spoke of the Nile's changing moods, the omens of eclipses, or the grain yields reported from Thebes. Sometimes, he spoke like a ruler.

"The Heliopolitan priests will press for more grain," he said one evening, sipping from a bronze goblet. "If we yield, it undermines the southern temples. That balance will fracture."

She arched a brow. "And you favor balance over favor?"

He smiled then—cool, serene. "Favor is a season. Balance endures."

Nakhtira studied him from across the table, always behind a veil of stillness. He startled her sometimes, not with words, but with the sheer presence he had grown into. The sharp edges of his jaw seemed carved, purposeful. His once-boyish eyes had shifted, hardened into something ancient. In certain light, they turned gold—liquid and deep, as though the gods themselves had kindled fire within them.

His skin bore the sun's blessing now: bronze and glowing, stretched over lean strength. His voice had deepened into something low and deliberate—a tone that made servants pause and guards forget their posts.

And yet—to the council—he was still a boy.

They smiled too easily in his presence. Spoke with the indulgent tone of elders addressing a clever child. They offered advice wrapped in silk, sweetened with just enough venom to leave scars later.

He let them.

He wore the mask they expected. He nodded, deferred, played the patient game.

But Nakhtira saw him.

She saw not just the man he had become, but the king he was choosing to be. Beneath his stillness simmered a fire, quiet but unyielding. One that would not bend to flattery, nor break under pressure.

And one day, the council would burn for mistaking his silence for softness.

By the time his eighteenth birthday approached, the court had grown restless.

Whispers danced down stone corridors like flickering candlelight. Servants repeated what nobles muttered behind their wine: the Pharaoh had no heir. No child. No hint that a royal lineage would carry on past his own shadow.

"He's yet to perform his duty as a man," they said. "A barren marriage is a dangerous omen."

The vizier, always careful with words, brought it to the king gently.

"My lord," he began, bowing low in the audience chamber where the king lounged in the cool shadows of a summer afternoon. "I have ignored the matter for too long, perhaps out of respect. But the court is concerned."

Nari lifted an eyebrow, swirling wine in his goblet. "Concerned about?"

"Your queen," the vizier said, glancing down. "It is known... you have not touched her since your wedding."

Nari sighed, deeply. "Is she not to your liking?" the vizier dared ask.

The young king's gaze sharpened, voice steady as steel. "She's my wife, Vizier. Whether I want her or not."

The vizier bowed his head slightly. "Would you wish for another, then? There are noble daughters—many of them—who would claw for the seat of concubine. Perhaps even a second wife, if the gods will it."

Nari placed the goblet down with slow deliberation.

"There will be no other," he said. "Now allow me enjoy my rest."

Dismissed with a single sentence, the vizier bowed and stepped away, the folds of his robe whispering over the floor. The cool evening stretched outside the lattice windows, painted in gold and mauve. Nari leaned back, reclining in the purple lounge chair. His robe was open, revealing a sculpted torso marked with the trials of discipline and war.

He drank.

Not heavily, just enough to feel the sting smooth out. Enough to chase the edge of tension away after a day spent battling the inertia of bureaucracy and the stubbornness of temple politics.

Then came the guard's voice, low and formal. "The queen approaches."

Nari waved a hand without rising.

She entered.

Nakhtira had aged like wine fermented under the desert moon—still, elegant, more refined with time. Her body was slender yet strong, wrapped in linen dyed the color of crushed roses. Her kohl-lined eyes were sharp beneath her veil. Her beauty no longer surprised him. It was simply... there. Like the Nile. Like the stars.

She paused upon entering, eyes falling on her husband's form. He was lounging, dressed in a shendyt for modesty, and a loosely-tied robe that exposed the planes of his chest and arms.

He sat up slowly, blinking off the wine's haze.

"My apologies for disturbing your rest," she said with a bow.

"It's alright," he answered. "I wasn't going to sleep anytime soon. Come. Sit."

He patted the space beside him.

She came.

He handed her the goblet. "Do you want some? Today's wine gets sweeter with every sip."

She sipped, then looked at him over the rim.

"Do you not like me?" she asked.

His brow furrowed. "Why would you ask that?"

"Am I too old for you?"

That caught him off guard.

He blinked. "What have those old hags been whispering to you?"

"Nothing," she stuttered, lowering her eyes.

"Where is this coming from?"

"I believe there's nothing wrong with either of us. So we must perform our rights and duties—to Egypt, your majesty."

She stood, fluid and slow. Then stepped toward him.

His breath caught as she moved between his knees and lowered herself into his lap, straddling him with quiet grace. The wine nearly fell from his fingers.

"What are you doing?" he whispered.

"My duties, your majesty," she murmured. Her hands untied the knot at her waist, and the linen slipped from her shoulders.

He stared.

The queen of Egypt sat atop him, bare save for the ornaments of gold on her arms and neck, her expression unreadable. Her skin was warm from the heat of the palace, fragrant with lotus oil.