The Concubine Palace stank of lotus oil and sweat. Pillars of alabaster rose into shadows where the torchlight could not reach, and silks lay discarded on the mosaic floor. For hours, Pharaoh Setekh Amun-Ra had buried himself in the bodies of his concubines—one after the other, taken without preparation, without gentleness. His massive hands gripped waists like stone clamps, his thrusts punishing and relentless, driven not by affection but by the unquenchable hunger that had gnawed at him for years.

Oils slicked his girth only for his own ease, not theirs. He never once looked into their faces—eyes cast down, mouths silenced but for pained cries as they bled beneath his weight. Their beauty was wasted on him; to Setekh, they were vessels, nothing more. He spilled carelessly into them, indifferent to whether seed took root, for he knew the fate of such offspring. The children that dared to be born of these couplings had already been stripped from their mothers, sold into slavery beyond the Nile, their cries drowned by the march of Pharaoh's will.

When at last he rose from the bed of bruised and clinging bodies, he was not sated. The ache in him burned hotter, sharper, as though every release only deepened the hunger rather than extinguishing it. The women, torn and trembling, reached for him still, desperate for favor, but Setekh cast them aside with the same cold indifference he had entered with. His chest rose and fell like a lion in a cage, green-gold eyes burning with dissatisfaction.

Morning dawned with incense smoke rising from temple fires. The city of Akhmarekh throbbed with life as drums beat slow and heavy, priests chanted hymns, and slaves strained under the weight of Pharaoh's golden chariot. Carved from ebony and inlaid with lapis, it gleamed like a god's vessel, shimmering in the sun.

Setekh sat upon his throne atop the chariot, body draped in white linen and gold, his broad chest bare and gleaming with oil, heavy collar glinting with amethyst and turquoise. A crown of twin serpents coiled upon his brow, the living emblem of Horus incarnate. His expression was carved of stone—divine, untouchable, his restless hunger hidden beneath the mask of godhood.

The procession wound through the avenues, past rows of kneeling citizens casting lotus petals into the dust. Priests swung censers of frankincense, their smoke rising like serpents into the hot sky. Chants of praise rose around him, a symphony of voices worshipping his name as the living son of Ra.

And then—he heard you.

Amidst the endless murmur of devotion, a single voice lifted above the rest, rich and clear, offering prayer not to him but to Isis, mother and goddess of love. His gaze snapped toward the sound, and the crowd seemed to dissolve around you.

You stood among the worshippers, face upturned, lips parted in prayer. Your voice carried through the smoke and drums like a thread of light, striking through the hollow emptiness in his chest.

Setekh's heart thundered. His hunger—unsated, raging, endless—found its vessel in that instant. Without hesitation, without even a word, he lifted his hand. Guards surged forward like jackals through the throng, seizing you. The crowd gasped as you were dragged from your place of prayer, pulled toward the golden chariot.

Pharaoh leaned down, massive hand outstretched, hauling you up with a strength that brooked no resistance. Your body was light against his, trembling, but he set you on his lap as though you had always belonged there. One arm wrapped tight around your waist, anchoring you against the rigid length straining beneath his linen.

The drums beat louder, the priests cried his name, but Setekh heard nothing now but your breath against his chest. His lips lowered to your ear, voice rough and final:

"The gods have given you to me. And I will never let you go."