The sun rose over Thebes like a golden blade drawn across the desert sky, casting its brilliance upon the ancient city. Banners fluttered from high towers, and the rhythmic pounding of ceremonial drums echoed through the avenues. Today, Egypt was to receive a new king—though not all agreed on who that king should be.
The grand plaza before the Temple of Amun swelled with people: nobles draped in linen dyed with rare indigo, generals clad in bronze and gold, scribes with ink-stained fingers, and the sweating masses packed between alabaster columns. The scent of lotus oil and incense warred with the stench of bodies pressed too close under the morning sun.
A grand dais had been erected at the temple's base, and upon it stood the man who sought to claim the throne by force—General Reshep, warlord of the southern armies, draped in a ceremonial cloak stitched with lions and falcons. The red and white Pschent crown waited for him atop a silk cushion, shimmering in the sun's gaze. High Priests, visibly trembling, stood on either side of him, murmuring the sacred rites with mechanical reverence.
But the crowd was not wholly his.
Not even half.
The nobility had gathered because they feared his wrath, not because they supported his claim. Those who had dared speak against him had been executed—gruesomely. Daughters thrown to crocodiles. Sons impaled on spikes and set before their manors. Entire bloodlines erased overnight. Now, his enemies were quiet. Too quiet.
Behind him, armed guards watched every movement in the crowd, their curved blades drawn. The generals who stood with Reshep—young, proud men intoxicated by the promise of power—grinned like jackals.
And yet…something was wrong.
The priest's hands trembled as he reached for the crown.
A glint flashed from the rooftop of a nearby obelisk—so brief, so sudden, that only the most alert among them caught it.
Then the arrow flew.
A sharp whssht! cut through the hush as the arrow buried itself in General Reshep's left shoulder with a sickening thunk. He let out a grunt of pain, staggering, the fine silk of his robe blooming red.
The priest shrieked and stumbled backward, the Pschent crown slipping from his grip and tumbling down the steps, where it rolled through a puddle of the general's blood.
Reshep, thick-skinned and hardened by decades of war, yanked the arrow from his shoulder and roared in fury. He turned, drawing his blade—
And met death.
A figure had appeared behind him. Hooded. Disguised in priestly robes. No one had seen him ascend the dais, no one had seen him move. In one swift motion, the figure drew a narrow blade from within his sleeve and slit the general's throat from ear to ear.
Blood sprayed across the golden altar.
Reshep fell to his knees, clawing at his neck, his voice reduced to a wet gurgle. His eyes bulged as he toppled forward, twitching violently, and then lay still.
The crowd gasped as one. His loyal guards froze, stunned. One dropped his sword.
The assassin lowered his hood.
It was the High Vizier—Harkem.
His bald head shone in the sunlight, and his robe was soaked with the blood of the usurper. His face was still. Composed.
"I told him the gods would not bless a false king," he said. "He would not listen."
Gasps turned to murmurs, and murmurs into silence. Harkem bent, lifting the crown from the bloodied floor. The gold was now tainted crimson.
One of the priests, trembling, whispered, "Will you take the crown, Vizier?"
Harkem stood for a moment. The crown sat heavy in his palm, gleaming beneath the red stains.
"I am a dog," he said quietly. "Not fit to be king."
Then he turned toward the great bronze doors of the temple and raised one hand.
"Open the gates."
The soldiers obeyed, parting the way. The doors creaked, and from the shadowed hall beyond, a boy of ten summers stepped into the light. His skin was dusky gold, his eyes wide, his face calm despite the thousands who stared. He walked alone, wearing only a simple linen tunic. The sun caught the bronze of his bracelets.
"Come here, my lord," said Amenmose
The priests looked at each other in alarm. The nobles shifted, whispers growing louder.
The vizier placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and turned to face the assembly.
"This is your king," he said, his voice louder now, as sharp as the blade still dripping in his robe. "He is Narmer, of the royal bloodline, born of Kilani's niece and the late Pharaoh himself. A rightful heir, hidden for his protection."
Nari stood tall, his lip trembling only slightly.
"This is Pharaoh Narmer, ruler of the Two Lands."
The crowd knelt. One by one. First the priests. Then the guards. Then the nobles, begrudgingly. And finally the people.
"Long live the king," Harkem declared.
And the crowd echoed him.
---
Mitanni — Days Earlier
The hills of Mitanni were dry and red, the dust hanging in the air like smoke. In a small clay house nestled between ridges, Kilani lay in her bed, her breath ragged.
The fever had eaten away at her. Her once-proud figure, so commanding and elegant, now trembled beneath sweat-soaked sheets. Manu sat by her side, one hand wrapped around her frail fingers. His broad shoulders slumped. His sword, once sharp and ever at his side, now lay untouched in the corner.
"You must go," she rasped.
"Kilani…"
"You must take him to Egypt. Our time has ended. The boy's time has come."
She reached for a small wooden box beside her. Inside, wrapped in soft linen, was a sealed scroll. The wax bore the emblem of her house—two falcons intertwined. She handed it to him.
"This must reach my brother. The king of Tahan. He is the boy's grandfather. This letter… it will awaken oaths made long ago."
"I'll take it," Manu said. "And Nari."
"You must. If the wrong person takes the throne, the blood of thousands will stain the Nile and beyond.Go. Now."
"I'll send the letter ahead."
"No," she said, grabbing his arm with unexpected strength. "Send it first. Then leave. If I die before you return… bury me in the hills. Where the sky is always red."
Manu nodded, tears welling in his eyes.
---
He entrusted the letter to a merchant caravan departing for Tahan before dawn. It would arrive in the hands of the king long before he and Nari could reach Thebes.
When the caravan vanished down the mountain road, Manu returned to find Nari watching Kilani, his small hands clenched into fists. Her breathing was shallow now.
"She's going to die, isn't she?" he asked, his voice barely audible.
Manu knelt beside him and said nothing.
They left the next morning, the boy's eyes dry but empty.
---
Thebes — Present Day
Envoys from Tahan had arrived days before the coronation. Dressed in robes of scarlet and silver, they brought spices, gems, and a sealed message for the Vizier. Its contents were never spoken aloud.
But after Amenmose read it, he summoned the priests in the dead of night.
And then he sent for the boy.
The general's death had cleared the final obstacle. All that remained was the bloodline—and with it, the future of the Two Lands.