The sky burned gold. Not the gentle haze of dusk or the molten glare of midday, but the sacred fire that signaled the gods were watching. Neferkha stood beneath it, tall and unmoved, a shadow wrapped in white linen and ancient blood.

The Festival of Heb Sed.

He had waited years for this.

Trumpets wailed through the temple court. Priests chanted in staggered echoes, their bare feet thudding against polished limestone as they carried statues of Wadjet and Nekhbet, protectors of the Two Lands. The sacred scent of frankincense and blood filled the air. Neferkha watched from the raised dais between twin thrones, the red crown of Lower Egypt secured on his head like a verdict. Today he would run. Today he would prove himself worthy of the divine throne he had clawed into his own.

It was not the cold stone of the seat or the weight of history that stiffened his shoulders. It was memory — the scent of wine and rotting figs in his father’s halls, the sound of feasting while he, the son of a concubine, scraped dried meat from clay bowls like a servant. Every face below him was painted in reverence, but he knew better. They watched for weakness. They waited for collapse.

He would give them neither.

The race course lay ahead, bound by twin obelisks etched with sun-glyphs and thunder. A bull snorted in the shade of the shrine, its black flanks gleaming like oil. He would run beside it four times for each crown, for each land, for each god. His body was carved from discipline, not favor. Where his brothers had drowned in honeyed wine, Neferkha had sharpened his will like obsidian. And where they now lay entombed, he stood.

"Prepare the kilt," said the High Priest, voice brittle with age.

He stripped off the outer robe and took the ceremonial kilt. It's short, flaring, with a bull’s tail swinging like a challenge. He let the priest touch him only as necessary. The rest, he did himself.

When he emerged before the people, the drums surged. Dust rose from their feet. The Apis Bull pawed the ground. Neferkha stepped forward, his muscles coiled beneath his golden skin, and he began the run.

The wind met him like a rival. His bare feet struck the earth with rhythm, calculated, brutal. Four laps as the Red King, conqueror of the Delta. Then he changed, the White Crown replacing the Red. Another four as Upper Egypt’s sword.

As he neared the final lap, a thundercrack split the sky.

No — not thunder.

A scream.

Not from the crowd. From above.

The world stopped.

Something fell. Not a bird. Not a god. Not a sign he knew. A body, small, clothed in strange fabric, trailing smoke and fear.

It hit the sacred lake with a splash that silenced the court.

Neferkha froze, breath sharp. The waters rippled. The priests gasped. Guards reached for blades.

The lake stilled, and a figure surfaced.

A odd-looking stranger.

And alive.