Nakht’s seat remained empty. Merit sat motionless, her fingers locked around the rim of her cup. The air, thick with myrrh and crushed lotus, made her stomach turn. A hard knot swelled in her belly, rising all the way to her throat.

She stood abruptly. Her veils brushed the floor, her step faltered. The painted columns seemed to sway in the torchlight. She crossed the space in a daze until she reached the shadow of a pillar, where the air felt a little cooler.

“Merit…”

Tiaa’s voice—low, hesitant—slipped in behind her.

Merit turned her face away. “Leave me.” Her lips trembled but her tone stayed sharp.

The servant stepped closer. Her delicate hands twisted against each other, but her voice was soft. “You look pale. Let me bring you water, I’ll fetch a jug…”

Merit recoiled, hitting the cold pillar behind her. A shiver ran down her spine. “Don’t touch me.”

Tiaa stopped, startled, but didn’t retreat. Her gaze stayed fixed on her mistress, worried. “I don’t understand… but I can see something is crushing you. Just tell me if there’s a way I can help.”

Merit wanted to shove her away again. Her breath came faster, her chest tightening like an iron band. The banquet’s clamor faded, replaced by a dull roar in her skull. She raised a hand to her mouth, but the sob broke through, unstoppable.

Her strength gave out. Her shoulders collapsed, her forehead pressed into Tiaa’s shoulder. Tears burned her cheeks, soaking the light linen.

“I don’t understand anymore…” Her voice cracked in a whisper. “Nakht… he knows this won’t save anything, and still he accepts… he accepts…”

Her fingers clutched Tiaa’s veil as if she might crumble entirely.

The servant’s arms wrapped around her. At first her touch was hesitant, then firmer, almost maternal. Her hand stroked slowly along Merit’s nape. “You don’t have to carry this alone…” she murmured.

Merit closed her eyes. Her throat burned, sobs shook her body. And despite the rancor still tearing at her belly from what she had witnessed the night before—despite the image of Tiaa in her brother’s arms—she gave in. She knew the servant had no idea what she was guilty of. But Merit felt it with every breath. Even so, she surrendered, vulnerable, clinging to the one she longed to push away.

Baki was waiting in the corridor, leaning against the wall. When he saw Nakht approach, he muttered,

“Well? How are you holding up?”

Nakht shrugged. “I don’t know… My head’s on fire. This is all too much.”

They slipped into a small side chamber. Nakht slumped onto a chair, still clutching his cup. Baki sat across from him, elbows braced on his knees.

“You’re drinking too much,” he said flatly.

Nakht gave a tired smile. “It’s that or collapse.”

Baki shook his head. “You think that’ll help you hold up? All you’re doing is giving the priests exactly what they want—showing weakness.”

Silence. Nakht stared into his cup as if an answer might be hiding there.

“I feel trapped, Baki… Like I have to say yes to everything. Like I can’t… choose anymore.”

Baki leaned closer. “You’re the pharaoh, not them. You choose. You want to keep going like this? Or do you want it to change?”

Nakht sighed, his eyes bloodshot. “I’m not afraid of the crown, not of the priests. I’m afraid of… of what’s waiting for me tonight.”

Baki’s gaze hardened. He understood perfectly, even if Nakht didn’t have to spell it out. But he didn’t press.

“Then stop running. Stand tall. If you want this to work, you need to take control.”

Nakht lowered his eyes, nodded slowly.

Baki’s tone shifted, darker. “I’ve also got news about… the assassination. Rumors, names being whispered.”

“Not tonight.” Nakht cut him off with a raised hand. “Not now.”

Baki studied him a moment, then nodded. “As you wish.”

Nakht straightened, set his empty cup on the table. “Come on. Let’s go back.”

Together they retraced their steps toward the banquet. Music and chanting still filled the great hall. Nakht returned to his place… but Merit’s seat was empty.

He froze for an instant. His gaze swept the hall, but she was gone. So he snatched a brimming cup from a servant’s tray and downed it in one long swallow.

The steward stepped into the center of the hall, staff pressed to his chest. His voice cut through the murmur of conversations:

“Let us follow the order of the rites: prayers to the gods, offerings, libations, chants. Let each give according to his rank.”

The priests of Amun took their places. Servants laid lotus flowers before the statues, filled tall cups for libations. The sistra kept the rhythm, harps added a somber thread. Smoke thickened the air. Everything continued… yet the seat of the Great Wife remained empty, and eyes kept returning to it.

Nakht sat. A servant offered him lotus wine, which he drained too quickly. On his left, Baki said nothing, watchful, his gaze hard. When a chamber officer leaned in, panting, Baki stopped him with a curt gesture.

“She’s not in the women’s wing, my lord,” the man whispered. “Tiaa is missing too. We’re searching the gardens.”

Nakht’s neck stiffened. “Search the court of the sycamores, near the pools. Quietly.”

The man bowed and slipped away.

The steward, unshaken, guided the flow of the rites. Platters of offerings passed from hand to hand: date cakes, jars of beer, small bowls of perfumed oil. In the back, a priest chanted, the choir answered. Dignitaries murmured among themselves, low enough to avoid rebuke, but loud enough to feed unease.

Nakht forced smiles when spoken to, clasped hands, blessed a platter with a sign. But he drank more than he spoke. The wine warmed his chest, blurred the edges of the hall. Twice he glanced at the entrance. Nothing.

Time stretched. Prayers repeated to Amun, then Mut, then Khonsu, as if trying to trap the heavens in words. Young boys brought scented water for libations, pouring it in thin streams into copper basins. The dancers returned, slower, their veils drawn tight, gold bracelets chiming like restrained rain. The conversations had lost their spark; people spoke just enough to cover the emptiness at the king’s right.

A messenger came quietly to Baki. “We’re searching the outer porticoes, the paths behind the northern garden. They say… they say someone saw pale veils by the orchard wall.”

Baki looked at Nakht. A beat. “They’ll bring her back as soon as they find her.”

Nakht set down his cup, hesitated, then picked it up again.

In the hall, the steward raised his voice once more:

“May the gods receive our libations until the setting of the disk!”

More pouring, long and slow. The light through the high openings shifted from yellow to red. Shadows stretched across the frescoes, the day’s heat receded by degrees. The music slowed, heavy, like bare feet dragging on stone.

The sky beyond the columns burned purple. More torches flared, resin smoke briefly covering the stench of wine. A final chant rose, deep, to guide the disk’s fall.

Still, Merit’s chair stood empty. Baki didn’t move. Nakht gestured for another refill. Then another. Dusk settled. Night was close.

Nakht was already wandering the chambers. His steps dragged, his breath short. He staggered slightly, cup in hand, which he drained before setting it down. The lotus wine’s cloying sweetness stuck to his tongue, and he knew he’d had too much. Still, his hand kept reaching for the jar by instinct.

He stopped before the chests, the fabrics, the ornaments lined up by servants. Everything felt misplaced. Just days ago, these rooms had belonged to his parents. He could still sense them—their perfumed oils in the air, the way their voices had filled the wing. His eyes settled at last on the great wooden bed at the center. He froze, head heavy, as if staring into a tomb.

He drew a breath… but his thoughts were no longer clear, and Merit’s image forced itself onto those immaculate sheets.

A sound in the corridor jolted him. First a rustle, then footsteps. He thought it a drunken illusion, but soon Merit’s voice rang out, sharp, irritated:

“…your prayers, your fabrics, all of it is nothing but a farce…”

A priest answered her in hushed tones, urging restraint. Nakht felt a pang in his chest. Hearing her reject so fiercely what bound their fate cut him—yet part of him savored the moment she would step through the door.

The door opened. Merit entered, followed by the priest who bowed and slipped away. Nakht lifted his eyes to her. Time seemed to halt.

She wore a garment he had never seen on her: sheer linen, almost transparent, cinched at the waist with a gold belt, shoulders bare, her breasts half-revealed by a carefully draped fold. Her legs showed faintly with each step beneath the fabric, and the heavy collar at her throat made the curve of her chest stand out even more. Her braids fell over her shoulders. She had never looked so much a woman to him.

He devoured her with his eyes, breath caught in his throat. His gaze slid down her hips, lingered on the swell of her breasts, and the more he drank her in, the more the desire he had caged for years flared out of control. The wine dissolved all restraint.

Merit frowned, staring hard at him. She saw his gaze, understood instantly. Annoyance flushed her cheeks.

“It’s a ceremonial robe, chosen by the priests,” she snapped.

Then, sharper: “Stop staring at me!”

Nakht turned away at once, uneasy. “Forgive me… I’m tired. The wine…” His voice trailed off.

She knew he was lying. She had seen it—this was not fatigue. His silence, his unease, his hungry eyes—everything revealed what she dreaded to admit. Her heart clenched, her breath quickened. She wanted to believe she was wrong, that it was only the drink, but a dark fear crept in: the fear of knowing the truth.

Awkward, Nakht reached for words. “It feels strange… being here, in Father and Mother’s chamber.”

“STOP.” Merit’s voice cracked like a whip. Her eyes burned. “That’s enough, Nakht.”

She pushed up from her chair, arms still crossed beneath her breasts like armor. Her steps struck the floor, shoulders shaking. Anger took hold first:

“You’re not the brother I know anymore! Why do you stay silent? Why do you accept everything they force on us? Why…”

Her voice broke. She turned her head, a hand to her mouth. Then the tears came, muffled. She turned back to him, eyes wet, her voice lower, almost pleading:

“Why do you scare me so much?”

She trembled—and this time it wasn’t only rage. Her chest heaved with suppressed sobs. She had carried too much, guessed too much, denied too much. Now she wanted the truth, all of it, even if it destroyed her.

Nakht didn’t know where to put his hands. Back to the wall, mouth gone dry, head heavy with wine. What am I doing? What am I doing? Merit’s voice still vibrated in the air—not a scolding, not just that: naked fear. She was looking at him the way one looks at a truth drawing near.

“Stop being vague,” she said, rigid, jaw tight. “I know you. Tell me the plain truth. Now.”

He tried to flee behind some empty phrase. Nothing came. His skin burned. His cheeks, already flushed, went crimson. So he left the wall and took three steps toward her, like a man walking to an altar. He stopped an arm’s length away, not daring to touch.

“When the priests spoke,” he breathed, “I said nothing… because… because it suited me.” Shame crawled back up his face. “Not for the crown. I don’t care about that.” His voice broke, then dropped lower. “It was for you.”

Merit didn’t move. Her fingers just tightened around her forearms.

“For a long time,” he went on, words suddenly unspooling, “since I was a teenager… I wanted your strength, the way you speak to the people, your eyes when you watch the stars. I… found you…” He searched for the word, fought his heavy tongue. “Beautiful. Too beautiful. And not only as a sister.”

Merit’s breath cut short. “Nakht…”

He didn’t let her go on. The sentences spilled out, graceless, defenseless. “You were everything I respected and everything I desired. When they said that… that you would be mine by law, by the gods… I was afraid, yes. But I also…” He shut his eyes, undone by shame. “I also felt relieved.”

Merit edged back half a step, as if the stone under her had tilted. “You’ve had too much,” she whispered, stricken. “You’re talking nonsense. I’m your older sister.”

“I know,” he rasped. “I know. And still… you haven’t been a sister to me for a long time…” The words fell between them, heavy, irrevocable.

Silence sucked the air out of the room. Merit blinked once, twice, as if she could strip away a vision. She opened her mouth—no sound. Then a sharp intake: “No… no.” She reached for an escape. “It’s the alcohol. Tomorrow, you’ll—”

Nakht nodded without looking at her. He was spent. His gut twisted from speaking. Shame folded him in half. He stepped back, moved around the bed, and sat hard on the edge, head bowed. His shoulders shook.

A sound broke from his throat—not a word, a short, almost sobbing grunt. He tried to smother it in his hand. “I’m sorry…” he said, not knowing to whom he apologized—to her, to the dead, to the gods. “I shouldn’t have…”

Merit stood there, breath stuttering. She watched him shrink in on himself, fingers lost, pride dissolved. Something older than her anger kicked back to life: the old reflex of a sister who comforts. She moved slowly, knelt in front of him. She set her hands on his forearms to keep him from hiding his face. “Look at me.”

He lifted wet eyes. Something absurd—a flash of compassion—crossed her fear. “You’ve had too much,” she said again, as if to anchor him. “Listen to me, Nakht. None of this is real. You’re lost. You’re saying things you don’t—”

He nodded again, and this time the tears truly came. Two, then three. He sniffed like a child and tried to shape another apology. Nothing.

So Merit did what she shouldn’t have: she leaned in and held him. Not tightly. A brief, clumsy embrace to keep him from cracking further. Her cheek brushed his temple. She felt the wine’s heat on his breath, the tremor in his shoulders.

Everything tipped at that touch.

Nakht folded her to him, at first like a lost brother seeking shelter. His face buried in her hair, his arms wrapped too tightly. His hands were shaking, but they clung, as if letting go of Merit meant falling into a void.

His palms slid along her back. Still innocent, almost tender. He breathed hard against her neck—the scent of lotus and sweat rising to his head.

Then his hands moved lower. Slowly. Merit tensed at once, tugged at his arm. “Nakht… stop.” Her voice shook. She tried to pull free, but his fingers were already lower.

He cinched her waist, bent her against him. And his hands kept going. They crossed her lower back, slipped over the sweep of her hips. Merit jerked, tried to step back, but he crushed her closer.

“Let go of me!” she gasped, breath ragged. “You’re hurting me!”

But his hands had found what they wanted. They clamped onto her ass—full, firm beneath the taut linen. He grabbed at her first like a thief finding treasure. Then he squeezed hard, spreading and taking, as if weighing everything they held.

Merit cried out, twisted, but he held her in one brutal clutch. His fingers dug into her flesh; his thumbs probed for the edge of the fabric.

Then his voice broke out—low, drunk, unfiltered:

“Fuck… your ass…” He growled into her ear. “Huge… perfect… all I want is to fuck it.”

Merit screamed, panic surging. “Nakht, stop! Do you hear me?! Let me go!” She fought, but every struggle only tightened his grip.

He kept going, panting, words slick with lust:

“Those hips… look at you… I want you now, right here…” His hands slid under the veil, found bare skin. He shoved the fabric aside and seized her ass in both hands. His fingers kneaded, spreading, crushing. “By the gods… they’re made to be held like this…”

Merit whimpered, throat strangled with fear. Her legs kicked, her hands hammered his chest, but his strength—stoked by wine—pinned her.

He half-turned her into himself and dragged her to the bed. She stumbled, toes knocking the wood. Nakht pushed, forcing her onto it. His hands left her ass and came up. He tore at the folds of linen, yanked the drape from her chest.

Merit curled in on herself, arms crossed, but he ripped them apart with a rough jerk. His fingers seized her breasts and mauled them without restraint, devouring the naked skin he’d uncovered.

“By every god… these tits…” His voice didn’t sound human anymore. “Big… round… I could lick them all night…” He squeezed, weighed them, his thumbs rubbing the peaks, hard with fear.

Merit shook all over. Her eyes flooded, her lips kept whispering “stop… stop…” but no louder cry came. Her ragged breath matched the jolt of each touch.

He ground himself against her, holding her to the bed, his mouth pouring out filth he could have spat at any woman, forgetting she was his sister:

“Fuck, I’m going to take you… I want your ass… your tits… all of you…”

Merit was crying now, motionless, frozen beneath him. Her arms trembled too much to fight.

Then a sob ripped loose, deep, wrenched from her gut. A sound so raw it split the air.

Nakht went still. His breath hung in place. He lifted his head and saw her—eyes drowned, lips shaking, face wrecked. His sister. His terrified sister.

The wine shattered inside him like a jar dropped from height. Horror crashed in.

He jerked back as if struck. His eyes blew wide; he stumbled into the bedframe. His legs buckled. He fell hard onto the stone, breath knocked out. His scraped elbows hit the floor; his hands scrabbled for purchase and found none.

“I’m sorry… by the gods, I’m sorry…” His voice shook, strangled. He curled in on himself, hands clamped over his face, shoulders racked. “I drank too much… I don’t know… I didn’t mean…” He babbled, wild-eyed, unable to breathe right, unable to face the shape of his sister.

Merit stayed on the bed, curled tight, arms crossed over her bared chest. Sobs heaved her shoulders, each breath a painful hiccup. Her legs wavered when she tried to stand. One hand braced on the bedframe, the other on her hip, she staggered like someone wounded.

Her knees shook. She froze for a second, tears blurring everything, then forced her muscles to obey. She rose at last, step by step, feet almost skidding on the stone. She never lifted her gaze from the floor.

On his knees, Nakht reached a pleading hand toward her, fingers clawed as if to hold her without daring. “Merit! Wait!”

She shook her head, unable to answer. Her throat could only shape muffled sobs. With a sharp motion she crossed the threshold—steps wavering at first, then quicker, until they turned into flight.

Her crying broke out in the corridor, echoing through the royal wing, carrying away whatever was left of their bond.