Merit yanked him aside, dragging him close to one of the massive pillars that held up the gallery. Her fingers dug into his arm, tight enough to hurt. The roar of the hall still hammered in her skull, that endless murmur of voices invoking the gods.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Her breath came out sharp, breaking. Her eyes searched her brother’s face. “And that smile… Nakht, what the hell was that?”

He looked away for a moment, as if his thoughts had dissolved elsewhere. “It’s insane, I know…” he murmured. “I can hardly believe it myself.”

Merit stepped closer, her heart racing. “Then say it! Tell them it’s madness.”

He gave a weak shake of the head. “I… I don’t know what to think.”

Her throat tightened. Despite herself, her eyes softened, heavy with grief. “Don’t tell me you’re fine with this… Not you…”

Nakht finally lifted his gaze, his eyes still swollen from tears. He stayed silent for a moment, then spoke slowly: “Maybe… maybe this is what has to be done. For the gods. To bring the water back.”

The words hit her like a blow. Merit jerked back, taking a step away. “To bring the water back?” She shook her head, a short, nervous laugh nearly slipping out. “No… no, listen to me. You might understand what it means to wear the crown…” She pointed a trembling finger at him, her voice raw. “But this… what they’re demanding of us… you don’t get it!”

He frowned, just barely, but said nothing.

Merit closed the space again, fever burning in her eyes. “You think this is just some ancient rite, a sacred duty, a burden we’re forced to carry. But it’s not just that.” Her mouth went dry as she struggled for words. “What they want, Nakht… it isn’t a prayer, it isn’t a ceremony. It’s our bodies.” She drew in a sharp breath, her gaze blazing with fury. “You don’t understand what that means. You think it’s just a title. But it’s not. It’s me. It’s you. It’s…” Her voice fell, almost ashamed of having to say it aloud. “It’s not a game.”

He didn’t move. His lips parted, but no sound came.

Silence crushed them. Merit, her chest burning, stared at him as if trying to rip out a reaction. Nothing.

So she whispered, softer now, the way one speaks to a child: “You don’t understand…”

Still nothing.

She shook her head, her throat raw. “You’ve always said I’d make a better ruler than you. You told me it wasn’t your role, that you hated the weight, the responsibility…” She paused, her wet eyes locked on his. “You always pushed me forward, Nakht. You used to say I’d be a worthy Pharaoh. And now…” Her voice cracked. “Now you turn away.”

He lowered his head, face frozen.

Merit clenched her fists. Every part of her screamed to shake him, to snap him out of it. But her arms fell limp at her sides. A dull ache spread in her chest, heavier than anger.

“I thought you were with me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I thought you felt the same revolt. But you just stand there, repeating their words…”

She stared at him again, desperate for a sign, a spark of rebellion in his eyes. Nothing. Just that silence, that emptiness that wasn’t him.

Merit released his arm with a sudden shove. She stepped back, two quick strides, breathless, then turned on her heel with a sharp, cutting movement.

Her footsteps echoed on the stone. Each one felt like tearing a piece of flesh from her body. She felt his gaze burning in her back, but she didn’t turn. She crossed the gallery with firm strides, breath ragged, lips trembling.

Night had already wrapped itself around Thebes when the palace doors opened onto the funerary hall. Torches lined the columns, their flames dancing against painted surfaces, reflected in gold and glazed tiles. The air was thick with incense and burning oils, a cloying heaviness that clung to skin and throat.

At the center, upon two funeral beds shrouded in pure white linens, lay the rulers. Their bodies rested in trembling light, surrounded by jars, amulets, and withered flowers. At the foot of the biers, priests in a half-circle chanted in one deep, solemn voice. Their psalms rose in waves, filling the hall with an otherworldly resonance.

Merit stepped into the sacred uproar, her head held high. Her gaze locked on the white sheets, and every muscle in her body tensed. The sweet perfume of resins made her stomach turn. Step by step she moved forward, until she stood beside Nakht.

Her brother had collapsed to his knees. His hands clutched at the cloth as if he could tear death away with his grip. His sobs broke out unrestrained, shaking his back. He looked like a lost child. Merit, though suffocated by pain, stood tall. No sobs left her lips. She stared at the shrouds, unable to give herself over to tears.

The priests pressed on, their voices already blending with promises:

“May their passage open the way to the gods… may the heir to come bring the rebirth of the kingdom…”

Merit’s stomach twisted. Even here, in the presence of the dead, they were already speaking of the child to be. Her parents were no more than a prelude to another story—the one the priests demanded of them.

Her fists clenched tight. She stood rigid, a statue carved in grief.

The ritual dragged on. The chant droned, monotonous, punctuated by the slow beat of sistra. The flames warped faces, casting on the columns the shadows of a crowd larger still, as if the ancestors themselves were watching.

At last, the final verse faded, and a steward stepped forward, bowing his head.

“Let the banquet be served, to honor the memory of the sovereigns.”

A murmur of assent rippled through the assembly.

Merit felt her throat close. The thought of food, of forced laughter over dishes, struck her as obscene. Her lips tightened.

“I’m not hungry,” she said flatly.

She turned and left the hall, her footsteps echoing over stone slabs. Behind her, the torches still burned, and voices already rose again in prayer.

Moonlight bathed the chamber. White veils stirred lightly with the night breeze drifting in through the tall window, though the air remained heavy. Merit lay stretched on the low bed, eyes wide open, fixed on the painted ceiling.

She turned sharply and sat up. Sleep refused her. Her mind kept circling back to the hall of prayers, the incense, Nakht’s twisted face, and the silence he had given her. Her fingers dug into the edge of the mattress.

She rose, pacing to the window. The moon hung high, round, ringed with constellations she knew by heart. Since childhood she had loved tracing their lines: Orion the hunter, Sothis the star of the flood…

“And you,” she whispered into the night, “you won’t bring the Nile back either.”

Her own voice sounded strange in the silence. She drew a breath, folding her arms across her chest. The priests promised the gods would return if they yielded to that ancient rite. But she didn’t believe it. The water would come with the seasons—or it wouldn’t. No union, no child could change that.

Sadness flickered across her face. She thought of Thebes’ outskirts, of hollowed cheeks and children she had watered with her own hands. If they learned tomorrow that the city’s future rested on a marriage of blood, how would they react? Would hunger drive them to swallow anything served as divine will? She closed her eyes, banishing images of sunken bellies and parched lips.

But it wasn’t only the people haunting her. It was Nakht.

She saw again that strange smile in the council hall. That smile that had no place in that moment. And then his silence when she confronted him. His refusal to answer. Why?

“You always said I was the one fit to rule,” she murmured, her hands pressed against the cold stone of the ledge.

She shook her head. Was he simply lost, crushed by shock? Or had he chosen silence?

A low anger rose in her—not yet against him, but against the wall of incomprehension she could not break. She knew. She understood what the priests truly demanded: not a symbol, not a title, but a child. Flesh and blood born of their union.

And he… he seemed blind. As if the word heir still meant nothing more than a concept to him. He doesn’t realize, he can’t realize… she thought. Twenty years old. No longer a boy, but still—Merit saw him as fragile, sheltered, too naïve to grasp the brutality of what was being forced on them.

“It’s not a game, Nakht,” she whispered to herself, repeating her own words. Her cheeks warmed, her eyes burned. “How can you stay silent? How can you smile?”

She stood there a moment, breath too quick. Anger dulled into exhaustion. She turned back to the bed and lay down again. But her thoughts kept circling, trapped like birds beating against a cage.

Time dragged on. Her mouth was dry, her stomach hollow. She hadn’t eaten since the afternoon, and hunger was beginning to claw at her insides. She hesitated for a long while, then pushed herself upright.

“Tiaa,” she called softly, reaching for the small bronze sistrum placed beside the bed. She shook it, the clear chime echoing down the corridor.

But no one came. Silence fell again.

She sighed, stood. If Tiaa didn’t answer, she would have to find something herself to quiet her hunger. She slipped a light veil over her shoulders and stepped out.

The servants’ corridor ran alongside the passage that led toward the kitchens. As she advanced, the night thickened, broken only by the torchlight flickering at intervals.

That’s when she heard it.

A muffled sound, uneven. At first she thought it a sigh, or someone snoring. But soon it grew into moans. Clear, feminine moans spilling through a half-closed door.

Merit froze. Her heart lurched. She didn’t need long to understand what she was overhearing. Someone was fucking in one of the servant rooms.

Her face flushed hot. She turned her head away, quickened her pace. But as she rounded the corner, a thought struck her, brutal. That voice… she knew it.

Her steps slowed, cold ran through her veins. She went back, stopping a few cubits from the door ajar. She held her breath. Yes. It was her. Tiaa.

Merit’s hand flew to her mouth. She didn’t want to listen, but her legs wouldn’t move. The sounds only grew—louder, sharper. Slaps muffled, ragged breaths. And then, another voice.

A man’s voice.

Merit stiffened. No. She must have misheard. It was impossible.

But the voice came again, harder, raw:

“Harder. Say it. Call me Pharaoh.”

A sharp crack followed. A submissive whimper answered.

The blood drained from Merit’s cheeks. Her stomach knotted. She stood paralyzed, unable to believe.

And again, that voice. Deep, insolent, familiar.

“Obey. You’re mine.”

It was Nakht.

The floor seemed to tilt beneath her. She pressed her hand to the wall to keep from collapsing. No. Not him. Not with Tiaa.

Another slap. Stifled laughter. Nakht’s voice, commanding, harsh—so far from the silence he’d given her only hours before. She heard Tiaa plead, pant, then submit.

Something slipped from her hand. Too late, she realized she had dropped the plate she carried. The shatter of ceramic against stone ripped through the night.

The moans cut off instantly.

Merit didn’t wait. Her body moved before her mind. She spun and fled down the corridor, her sandals smacking the stone floor. Her heart pounded so violently she thought the whole palace must hear it.

She didn’t stop until she reached her chamber door. Her hands shook as she pulled it shut behind her. She leaned back against the wood, breath ragged, unable to steady herself.

Her brother. Her servant. Those obscene words still echoing in her ears. Everything blurred.

She stumbled to her bed, dropped onto it, eyes wide open into the dark. The silence of her room felt even more brutal than the sounds she had run from.

Morning seeped through the mashrabiyas, pale, muffled light. Merit opened her eyes in a haze. Her temples throbbed, her mouth tasted of bitterness from a sleepless night.

The door creaked softly. Tiaa entered, a tray in her hands, a light smile on her lips as though nothing had changed. Merit rose slowly, holding her breath.

“You need to get ready,” Tiaa said gently. “The priests are announcing the ceremony early this morning. You’ll be presented… as Great Royal Wife.”

The words fell between them like a stone into water. Merit looked away, clutching the sheet to her chest. She wanted to scream, but her lips stayed closed.

Tiaa set down the tray, stepped closer, almost shy. “I know… what you’re going through.” Her voice dropped low. “It must be awful. You can talk to me, Merit. Like always.”

Merit turned her head slowly toward her. Her eyes stayed cold, unreadable. “There’s nothing to say.”

Silence thickened. Tiaa hesitated, then sat at the edge of the bed, hands clasped in her lap. She lifted her chin, searching Merit’s gaze. “You didn’t go out last night, did you?”

Merit’s chest clenched. She drew in a breath, measured every syllable. “No. I stayed here.”

Tiaa studied her a moment, then exhaled, relieved. Merit watched in silence, saying nothing—but that flicker of ease on her servant’s face burned her chest like fire.

Only then did she allow herself to rise. She let Tiaa help her into veils, golden girdle, jewelry. But she kept her body stiff, trapped in an armor of silence.

“I’ll speak to Nakht again,” Merit murmured, tightening the collar at her throat. “And to the priests. The people won’t want this union. They’ll understand.”

Tiaa said nothing. She adjusted a fold of fabric, her fingers trembling.

The silence between them weighed heavier than any word. Merit knew then that she was alone. Her friend, her brother, even the people themselves—they were slipping from her grasp.

Without another word, they left the chamber, their footsteps echoing toward the ceremony that awaited them.

The priests had ordered the people to gather at first light, filling the esplanade before the great hall.

Merit followed Tiaa through the corridors. Her white veils drifted around her, heavy with gold belts and jewelry. Every step echoed like a march to execution. She could already hear, in the distance, the roar of the assembled crowd.

When she crossed the gates, the shock hit hard. The esplanade overflowed with bodies. Men and women hollow-cheeked from hunger, children perched on their parents’ shoulders, all eyes fixed on the platform before the temple. The air reeked of sweat, dust, and the fervor that rises in masses when they await a sign.

Nakht was already there, standing beside the priests, crown low on his brow. His face looked solemn, yet when his gaze met hers Merit saw it—that strange spark in his eyes, the same as yesterday.

The high priest raised his arms. His voice boomed against the stone, rolling above the crowd:

“People of Kemet! Children of the Nile! You who suffer the drought, you who have prayed through two long seasons for the return of the waters, hear today the gods’ answer!

Our sovereigns have been struck down, victims of men’s folly—but their bloodline is not ended. No! Their children stand here, alive, pure, bearers of divine blood.

Since Osiris and Isis, brother and sister have been the pillars of royalty. Through them life is reborn, through them the gods bestow their favor. Today this sacred model is restored. Today, their union will be proclaimed, so that a consecrated heir may be born!”

The crowd erupted in a single cry. Thin arms shot skyward, sobs broke out. For those starved faces, it was at last a tangible sign, a promise.

But the high priest was not done. His voice climbed higher still:

“Look! The Nile turned away because the ancient laws were forgotten! We betrayed our gods by renouncing the sacred customs. But today, through this union, the cycle is restored! The divine bloodline will not be broken!

From this union will come the awaited child, the child who will bring salvation to our people, the one who will revive the fertility of the black land!”

Thousands of voices roared in answer: “Let him be born! Let him be born!” The chant swelled like a wave crashing against the columns.

Merit stood frozen. Her eyes searched in vain for a face that understood. All she found were stares lit with hope, with zeal, with submission. The very people she had fed with her own hands only days ago now hailed her as her brother’s bride. Humiliation seared her like fire.

Then came the time of mourning. Their parents’ bodies were carried on gilded biers, draped in garlands and dried lotus blossoms. The people bowed to the ground. The priests intoned new psalms:

“Death and rebirth! Night and dawn! The cycle renews, through the pure child born of this sacred union!”

Merit’s knees threatened to give. She longed to kneel alone, to touch one last time those beloved faces. But her parents’ deaths had already been devoured by politics. They were no longer bodies—only symbols.

At last, the high priest lifted his staff. The ceremony shifted into its final act.

“Behold Nakht, son of Pharaoh, chosen of the gods! May he reign as Horus over Kemet! May he guard the order and command the waters! May he crush our enemies and bring prosperity reborn!”

A servant placed the scepter and flail into her brother’s hands. The crown blazed under the rising sun. The crowd roared, thousands of voices fusing into one cry.

Then it was her turn. She was brought forward. Merit felt the weight of the royal veil on her neck. The priest’s voice rang out, implacable:

“Behold Merit, daughter of Pharaoh, eldest heir, Great Royal Wife! Let her be the sacred spouse of her brother, mother of the heir promised to the gods! Let her be Isis beside Osiris, the lotus beside the river, the fertile earth that will give life back to the kingdom!”

Again the people cried out in ecstasy: “Long live Merit! Long live the sacred union!”

Merit lowered her eyes. She no longer heard anything but the dull pounding of her own heart. The world closed in on her like the jaws of a trap. Inside, silence crushed her while outside, the acclamations roared.

The trap was sealed.