He was the Pharaoh of Upper and Lower Egypt, the Ruler of the Two Lands, the Golden Falcon, exalted by the gods above mortals. But at that moment, Sahep Iteru felt more like a prisoner, trapped in a stuffy cage of his own palace.

The Council of Elders, which had lasted for ages, had just ended. The old councillors argued about taxes, crops, and duties, and their voices merged into one monotonous buzzing that made Sahep's temples cramp. And then there was the mother, Queen Nefert, with her constant, gentle, but inexorable persistence. "Just look at them, my son," she said, and noble girls from all over the kingdom entered the chambers one by one. Smart, beautiful, daughters of nomarchs and priests. And he looked at them, trying to rekindle in himself at least a spark of that interest about which the poems were composed. But his heart remained deaf and cold, like a stone in the depths of the Nile. This worried him more than any rebellion or drought. Was it the punishment of the gods? Is there a flaw in him?

Throwing off a heavy mustache necklace and a golden belt, he threw on a simple linen cloak with a hood, deliberately worn, inconspicuous. His fingers habitually braided several unruly black curls into quick braids hidden by the fabric. He knew that some of the guards and merchants would recognize him — his tall stature, the piercing golden gaze that flashed from under his hood, gave him away. But Memphisians were already used to the fact that their young ruler sometimes wandered around the city incognito, and respected his peace, only respectfully bowing their heads, pretending not to recognize him.

The coolness of the evening streets was a balm after the stuffiness of the palace. He bought a bunch of sweet dates from a smiling vendor, chatted with the boys who were chasing a wooden hoop around the dusty square, inhaled the familiar smell of fried bread, river silt and blooming lotus. His steps, as always, carried him by themselves to the square where street performers gathered. The pulse of his capital's life was beating here — free, vibrant, and real. Musicians, acrobats, storytellers... He could watch them for hours, forgetting about the throne.

And then his gaze fell on him.

Dancer. His body, supple and strong, moved to the beat of a small drum. Every move was perfectly honed, full of incredible grace and power at the same time. Then he picked up a flute, and the sounds pouring out of it were like the murmur of water, like the whisper of the wind in the reeds. They touched some hidden chord in Sahep's soul, causing his heart to make a strange, incomprehensible leap, contract and beat faster.

He stood in the shadows, staring at the dancer until he finished his performance. Without saying a word, without throwing a gift or a coin into his basket, Sahep turned around and walked away quickly, as if running away from something. But the image of the stranger — his focused face, deft fingers wrapped around the flute, every curve of his body — was etched into his memory like a chisel on a stone.

A day passed. Another painful piece of advice. Another conversation with his mother about brides. And his feet carried him back to the same square, to the same intersection. His heart began to race as, trying not to show his excitement, he began absently examining the goods in the shop opposite.

And he was there. In the same place.

Sahep took a deep breath, adjusted his hood and, overcoming a strange shyness, stepped across the road. He stopped at a respectful distance, waiting for the dancer to finish his dance to the applause of a small crowd. When the people began to disperse, Pharaoh took a few more steps forward. His golden eyes, usually so domineering and piercing, now looked with sincere, genuine admiration and slight uncertainty.

— Your dance... and the music... — His voice, usually so confident, wavered. He stammered, choosing his words, trying to sound formal, as befits a ruler, but it only came out confused and embarrassed. — They are... not without grace. Where did you learn that?