The sun had already risen, but the royal chambers remained steeped in a heavy gloom. The linen drapes, drawn over the tall windows, smothered the golden light. The air still carried the lingering scent of spiced wine, mixed with the ashes of incense burned through the night.

Nakht hadn’t closed his eyes once. For hours, he had lain motionless, his gaze lost in the painted patterns of the ceiling. His skull throbbed like a sacred drum, his mouth was as dry as desert sand, but he paid no mind to his battered body. His whole being was chained to a single name: Merit.

He prayed in silence. That Amon might erase the night. That Hathor might cover it in oblivion. That it had all been nothing but a drunken nightmare. But every instant returned with the sharpness of ritual: his obscene words, his trembling hands clutching her, the horror flashing in his sister’s eyes. Nothing had been a dream. Everything had been too real.

A wave of dizziness hit him as he pushed himself upright. The linen sheets, crumpled and twisted, bore the scars of his turmoil. His bare feet touched the cold tiles—the stone bit into his skin, as if reminding him of his sin.

He forced himself up. In the polished copper mirror, he saw not a radiant prince, son of Re, but a wreck: bloodshot eyes, yesterday’s beard, hair in disarray. Nothing divine. Just a drunken, shame-stricken man. He turned away from the sight.

On an ebony chest lay a pale linen tunic; he grabbed it and slipped it on, fumbling at the belt with shaking hands. His throat burned with thirst, but what he craved was not water. He was starving for forgiveness.

Every step across his chambers rang against the stone like a sentence. The faint perfume of lotus and myrrh clung to the air, whispering of what he had tried to force upon her. His stomach clenched in disgust.

He knew he had to find her. Before the gods themselves turned deaf to his prayers. Before Merit severed forever the bond they had shared since childhood.

Nakht yanked the curtains open. The morning light flooded the room—merciless, blinding on his ravaged features. The palace already stirred: servants’ footsteps, priests murmuring prayers, the clatter of guards’ weapons.

He drew a deep breath, heart pounding against his ribs. Then he crossed the threshold, resolved to search for his sister, to beg her forgiveness—before it was too late.

Nakht strode through the palace, his pace sharp, his voice tense as he stopped every servant, every scribe, every priest robed in linen.

“Where is Merit?”

The answers never changed: puzzled looks, lifted shoulders. No one had seen her since dawn. Some assumed she still lay with him, as was expected after a royal first night. The surprise in their eyes cut him deeper each time—how could the king himself not know?

A weight pressed on his chest, as crushing as a sarcophagus lid. His temples hammered harder with each denial, each silence feeding the dread he tried to hold back.

In the great hall with its painted columns, he stopped dead. A group of priests stood with arms raised, chanting to Amon. Nakht waited until the hymn faded, then cut in, voice ragged with impatience:

“The Great Wife—have you seen her this morning?”

They exchanged uncertain glances. One finally bowed.

“No, my lord. We believed she was still in your chambers.”

Nakht clenched his fists, turning his face aside. The air seemed to thicken around him, suffocating. He left abruptly, his breath shallow.

That was when he ran into Tiaa. She was carrying a basket of linen scented with lotus, but froze at the sight of him—agitated, unmoored. Her eyes widened.

“Majesty? What is it?”

Nakht stepped toward her too quickly, his voice low but taut:

“Don’t call me that… Merit—have you seen her?”

Tiaa shook her head, hesitant. “No… not since last night. I thought she…” She stopped short, reading his face. Something was wrong.

“What happened, Nakht? Tell me.” Her voice trembled.

He turned away, jaw tight. Then, beaten down, he let the words escape:

“I… lost control. The wine… I was drunk.”

The basket nearly slipped from her hands. She covered her mouth, stifling a gasp. Her eyes filled with terror.

“By the gods…”

Nakht grabbed her wrist, desperate.

“Help me, Tiaa. I have to find her. I have to beg her forgiveness.”

She stayed silent, eyes cast down, before finally speaking—her tone heavy, grave:

“I think she knows. About us. About you and me.”

Her words struck him like a blow.

“How…?”

Tiaa turned her gaze away, ashamed. “That night… when we were caught. I think it was Merit who saw us.”

Each word weighed on his chest, crushing him. The floor itself seemed to sway under his sandals.

He pressed his hand to his forehead, then his chest, as though trying to still the storm raging inside. Nothing eased it. His sister was gone. She knew. Perhaps she had fled.

“Help me find her, Tiaa. I beg you.”

The servant nodded, fear and pity mingling in her eyes.

Together they crossed the palace, questioning every guard, every servant. The hours stretched like endless columns, yet no trace of Merit appeared.

What had begun as a private dread was now spreading through the halls. Whispers rose like a tide. Priests muttered among themselves. Scribes shuffled anxiously. Guards scanned the courtyards and gardens.

And deep inside, Nakht already knew—the fault was his alone.

The sun had climbed past its zenith before rumor hardened into fact: the Great Wife was nowhere in the palace. Not in her chambers, not in the gardens, not at the temple. Every servant questioned, every priest consulted, gave the same answer — no.

Then worry spilled past the palace walls.

In the columned courtyard groups of priests murmured with grave faces, already calling it a sign from the gods, Amon’s wrath on the royal house. Servants scurried through the halls, peering into every shadow as if they could pull her out of one. The guards, summoned at once, were ordered to comb the streets of Thebes, out to the dusty outskirts.

Even the air felt heavy with foreboding.

Nakht walked without stopping, from room to room, unable to stand still. His tunic clung to his sweat-soaked back. Each passing hour carved a deeper pit inside him. He heard the whispers trail him — “the Great Wife has vanished,” “the gods turn their faces away,” “the union was not sealed” — and each word struck him like a blow.

He knew it all began with him.

When night fell over the palace, torches were lit and threw giant shadows across the walls. Squads armed for a sweep pushed through the gates and moved silently across the city. They searched emptied markets, the river’s cracked banks, and the narrow lanes where the smell of dried fish and dust hung thick. No trace of Merit.

Nakht stayed on the high terraces, scanning the horizon, his eyes raw with weariness and rage. His throat tightened every time a returning patrol had nothing to report.

By morning he had not slept. His lips were cracked, his eyes hollowed. The priests came to speak with him: they needed to calm the people before rumor ignited into panic. Some already whispered of conspiracy. Others spoke of abduction. Nakht no longer listened. Every gust of wind seemed to whisper the same verdict: it was his fault.

When the afternoon sun flooded the palace again, Nakht had slumped into a side room, half-collapsed against an intricately carved wooden chair. One hand hung limply over the arm, shaking. His thoughts were a riot: the memory of his hands on Merit, the silence that followed, and now her absence.

The door burst open.

Baki rushed in, out of breath, sweat beading his brow.

“Majesty!”

Nakht snapped his head up, feverish.

“She… she’s been seen.”

The words hit him like thunder. Nakht sprang upright, his heart leaping in his chest. “Where?”

“In a poor quarter, to the south of the city. The same quarter where people thought your parents’ killers hid.”

The phrase echoed like a drum. Nakht gripped the chair’s arms; veins throbbed at his temples.

“What do you mean?”

Baki hesitated, dropping his eyes for a moment. “I tried to tell you the other day… but you were drunk, your pare—”

Nakht cut him off with a single step forward. “I don’t care for the details! Tell me about Merit!”

Baki drew a heavy breath. “It’s only a rumor… but she may have been taken. Or worse.”

Nakht’s cry split the air. He shoved the chair back, slamming his fist into the floor.

“No! By the gods, no!”

He paced the room, his footsteps pounding the stone. Fear, shame, and fury churned in him like a flood.

“Gather your best men! Search every house in that quarter!”

Baki stepped between him, voice steady. “Wait. If we act with brute force we risk losing her for good. We must watch, prepare.”

“Watch?” Nakht’s face twisted, eyes bright with tears and rage. “While she suffers maybe? I will not wait!”

“I’ll find her,” Nakht blurted, voice raw. “Alone, if I must.”

Baki’s frown deepened. “You will not go. It’s too dangerous.”

“Do you expect me to stay here praying while she’s possibly in their hands?!”

The guard advanced, his features lined with fatigue. “You are the pharaoh. If you fall, all of Kemet collapses.”

Nakht ignored him. Lightning flashed in his gaze and his words poured out like water. “You taught me to fight with your own hands! You know what I can do.”

Baki’s voice thundered back. “Precisely because I know what you can do, I will not let you act like a madman!”

A heavy silence dropped. Nakht’s expression was taut, poised to leap. Baki could see there would be no turning him back — his mind had already left the room.

The guard sighed and rubbed his beard. “Then listen. We will go — but not now. At sunset, when shadows swallow the alleys. I’ll bring only three trusted men. Not one more.”

Nakht opened his mouth to argue, but Baki raised a firm hand. “That’s the only condition. Otherwise I’ll lock you in your apartments.”

The pharaoh stood frozen, trembling with rage and impatience. At last he nodded, grudgingly. “Fine… but when the sun sets, we move.”

When night settled over the city, five figures slipped out of the palace through the back court in silence. They had left the torches behind; only the cold gleam of the moon guided their steps.

Baki led the way, every movement sharp, assured. Three soldiers followed, their weapons hidden beneath dark cloaks. Nakht closed the march, eyes burning, trying to mimic their stealth. But inside him there was no discipline, no measure—only a storm of rage and fear.

Every sound in the night—a dog barking in the distance, hushed voices at a corner—made his heart jolt. He saw Merit’s face again and again, her eyes brimming with tears. If anything had happened to her, he would never forgive himself.

They left the royal avenues behind and wound through narrow alleys with peeling walls. The air turned colder here, thick with dust and human waste. Suddenly Baki stopped, raising his hand. All froze.

“There,” he whispered.

Below, a house stood out from the shadows. Two men guarded the door, statuesque, their crossed arms gleaming with metal.

Baki gestured for his men to stay hidden. “We watch.”

Time stretched. In the heavy silence, Nakht could hear only his own breath. His fingers clenched tight around the hilt of his sword.

Then a scream tore through the night.

“No! Don’t touch me! Let me go! Help!”

Nakht’s blood froze. He needed no confirmation—it was Merit. Her voice, ripped raw with terror.

Baki spun to stop him, but it was already too late. Steel flashed free of its sheath. Nakht hurled himself forward, eyes blazing, blade raised.

The sword sliced the air with a hiss. The first guard never even lifted his weapon—his throat split wide, a dark jet splattering the dirt. The second stumbled back too late—steel punched into his gut. He collapsed in a choking roar, the sound echoing down the alley.

Shouts rose from behind the door.

“They’ve found us!”

Baki wasted no time. He smashed through the wooden panels with his shoulder. The three soldiers surged inside, weapons catching firelight as they cut down the startled men. The house erupted with screams, clashing steel, the crack of bodies colliding.

Nakht saw none of it. His eyes burned with only one image: Merit. He pushed through the chaos, his sandals slipping in spilled blood.

An enemy lunged from the staircase—Nakht drove his sword straight through, the blade ripping out the man’s back. The corpse tumbled down the steps as Nakht charged upward, breath ragged.

At the top, a door stood ajar, a flicker of light trembling beyond it. Behind it, a sob.

He entered.

Merit was there—on the floor, hair undone, her veil ripped from her shoulders, her chest half-bared. Her tear-drenched eyes lifted to him.

“Nakht!”

He stopped, struck straight through. Relief and dread flared inside him like fire. She was alive, calling to him—but her torn clothes screamed that hands had been on her.

“By Re… what have they done…” His throat tightened.

He never finished.

A sound behind—Merit screamed.

A man burst forward, knife in hand, face twisted with hate, rushing straight for her.

Nakht lunged, slamming into the bandit before the blade reached her. They crashed to the floor, grappling like animals. Breath tore from their throats in snarls.

Pain ripped through Nakht’s side, sharp and hot—steel had found his flesh. But he didn’t yield. His hands clamped around the man’s throat, crushing with blind fury. The bandit’s eyes bulged, his mouth gaped in a silent death rattle. Nakht kept squeezing until the body went slack.

He collapsed for a moment, chest heaving, bloodied hands shaking.

Then he crawled to Merit.

She was sobbing, curled against the wall. When he wrapped his arms around her, she collapsed into him, hiding her face in his chest.

“Forgive me…” His voice cracked to a whisper. “It’s all my fault… please, forgive me…”

He repeated it again and again, a broken litany, holding her trembling back.

But through her tears, Merit felt something else. His voice faltered, broke. His body leaned heavy against her.

“Nakht?”

She pulled back slightly, eyes widening in terror. And she saw it.

The knife was still buried in his flank, sunk to the hilt. Blood spread across his tunic in a widening stain.

“No… no!” she cried, pressing her hands hard against the wound.

Nakht still looked at her, lips shaping the same word, over and over—pardon. Then his eyes glazed. His body slumped sideways, heavy, lifeless.

Silence fell across the room. Broken only by Merit’s sobs, raw and shattering, as she knelt in her brother’s blood.