The glistening of the blade reflected his sweaty, bloody face as if mocking him while his hands trembled. Blood trickled down to his feet as his lifeless brother lay with unseeing eyes, almost as if silently admiring in a twisted way. From what? The silent pleas for Akhemset to listen? To cower to their kidnappers' will?

No—his brother had been weak. A man softened by kindness, blinded by the naive belief that mercy had a place in rulership. And in the end, that very softness had killed him.

The thought curled like venom in his mind, but before Akhemset could finish it, a voice shattered the silence.

"Pharaoh."

His advisor, Amus.

Akhemset’s murky gaze flicked down to his clenched fist, knuckles white with tension. Slowly, deliberately, he exhaled and uncurled his fingers, flexing them as if trying to rid himself of the ghosts clinging to his skin. His throat was dry when he finally spoke, voice a low rasp edged with restrained fury.

“I have told you—there is no reasoning with these men,” he spat, flicking a hand dismissively. His movements were sharp, controlled, yet coiled with menace, like a blade restrained only by its sheath. “I want those who dare spill secrets of my plans, those who slaughter my soldiers, and every single wretch who incites rebellion on my land.” His words cut through the chamber like a dagger through flesh, each syllable dripping with venomous disdain. With a slow, measured movement, he rose from his chair, his palms pressing firmly against the solid wooden table. His piercing gaze swept over the assembled men—guards, advisors, men of so-called wisdom and loyalty. His jaw tensed as his mind echoed a single, unforgiving truth.

Traitors.

His kingdom was bleeding. Riots and assassinations festered in his lands, orchestrated by cowards who mistook him for his fallen brother. Kaemwaset had been a fool, too blind to see the dagger aimed at his back. But Akhemset was not his brother.

No, where Kaemwaset had sought peace, Akhemset would carve order from blood.

"If I have to take my spear and exile every single one of those rodents to find their leader then so be it." Akhemset spat as if it were venom before he felt his guards ready to restrain him. Right. Control. Akhemset let out a heavy sigh and slipped back into his chair, feeling the breeze touch his skin as if the gods were keeping him tame. He could already feel Amus's gaze on him, ready to offer counsel.

Amus cleared his throat and stood, commanding the room's silence. "I'd advise our Pharaoh to review our soldiers and make a peace offering to our people to gain their trust, encouraging them to share knowledge of these rebel groups." He stated with his grey eyes scanning the room as if daring someone to object. "Perhaps our empress would know something? Who's to say she isn't aware of such movements or spilling your words?"

Akhemset's gaze hardened at Amus's words. The empress? The woman who had sworn her life and blood as if he wouldn't slit her throat before his people? She was... challenging, yet he thought she knew better. "Enough of your foolish talk," he hissed with a sharp look at Amus before rising from his chair. "You are all dismissed."

Akhemset moved through the dim corridors of his chamber, ignoring the distant calls of his advisor. He needed silence—something solid to break beneath his fists, something to extinguish the rage crawling beneath his skin like fire. Reaching his private quarters, he shoved the heavy doors shut behind him, the ancient carvings of his family's legacy pressing into his back. His breath came unevenly, shaking against the quiet.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. He turned sharply, tension coiling in his frame, only to find his spouse standing by the balcony, bathed in the glow of the setting sun. Their gaze was lifted to the endless stretch of sky above, serene—untouched by the unrest beyond the palace walls.

As if there weren't traitors lurking in the shadows.

As if the weight of treachery and war did not reach them.

Or worse—as if they did not fear it.

Silently, he moved forward, closing the space between them like a storm creeping across the desert. His presence crowded theirs, the warmth of his body pressing close as his hands came to rest against the stone railing, caging them in. Like a predator trapping its prey.

He leaned in, his voice velvet-soft yet laced with steel. "You've heard the whispers," he murmured. "The traitors. The bloodshed. Yet you stand here, unguarded. Are you waiting for them?"

He let the question linger, his gaze searching theirs for an answer he wasn't sure he wanted. Then, softer—dangerously soft—"You want this... all of it. My power. Our people. That throne. You wouldn't throw that away so carelessly... would you?"

A statement. A warning. A claim.

He didn't believe they were a traitor. Not yet. But the unspoken promise lingered in the air—should they become a threat, he would be ready.