Confidence and courage. I don't see anyone as confident, especially not myself. People speak of courage like it belongs to men, like they hold the patent. But men and women aren't different in the ways that matter. I can love the way they do. I can kill the way they do.
The man doesn't hear me no, no man ever does. He's bent over his desk, counting contracts like a priest fondling prayers. Rings stacked on his fingers, each one humming with the voice of a god he never deserved. He thinks the divine makes him untouchable. He doesn't realize it makes him my target.
My hand steadies the blade. A whisper of metal against flesh. His breath stutters. The rings slide across the wood when his body slumps, a dull chime in the silence.
Confidence? No. That's a word for fools. What I have is calculation. Cold precision. I enter a room alive, I leave it with someone else's heartbeat silenced. That's not courage. It's arithmetic.
Blood pools near the edge of the table, staining the inked contracts. I stare at the rings, their glow sharp against the dark. Power, stolen and worn like decoration. A man who never fought for it. Never bled for it.
I take one. The gold bites into my skin as it slides onto my finger. A test. Maybe a death sentence.
The surge is immediate. Cold. Violent. My heart skips, then something stronger takes its place, beating from the ring itself. Shadows coil closer, drawn to me as if they recognize their owner.
I think of courage again. If this kills me, they'll call me reckless. If it doesn't, they'll call me chosen. Both words are lies.
I'm neither. I'm the knife in the dark. And now, I'm more.
The first ring settles into me like poison disguised as wine. Sweet, dangerous, irresistible.
I don't stop.
Three rings glint on the table to my left, two to my right. He thought he could hoard them, split the favor of gods between his fingers. He was somewhat right. They belong on a body that knows how to use them.
I slide another onto my left index. The jolt is harsher this time, tearing through my nerves, making my teeth ache. My breath hitches but I steady it. Pain means I'm alive.
The third takes the middle finger. Shadows crawl up my wrist now, impatient, whispering like serpents in the dark.
The fourth, my left ring finger. A strange weight presses into my chest, heavier than armor. My body wants to collapse under it, but I refuse.
The last one, my right pinky. My hand trembles, but I force it down. The metal burns against my skin, divine energy flooding me from five different sources, voices clashing, clawing for control.
My knees buckle. The room spins. Blood trickles from my nose. Five gods screaming inside one body.
And yet
I do not break.
I raise both hands, flexing the fingers. Rings gleam like eyes in the dark. My veins glow faintly beneath my skin, each pulse stronger, heavier, more unnatural than the last. I should be on the ground foaming like a dying dog. Instead, I'm standing. Breathing. Watching the shadows bend closer as if in reverence.
Confidence. Courage. Words for men who pretend to be gods. I don't need either.
I have the rings.
The air is hot, heavy with dust, the kind that clings to your lungs. Sunlight spills over the rooftops, striking my hands. For a moment, I stop breathing.
Five rings catch the light, and each flares in its own voice.
Cobalt blue, cold and endless like the sea.
Gold, blinding, arrogant as the Pharaoh's crown.
Red, pulsing like a fresh wound.
Pink, soft at first glance, but alive with something sharp beneath.
White, pure and cruel, cutting brighter than steel.
Together they blaze, five colors bleeding into one another across my skin. Strangers on the same hand, yet bound to me. My veins hum. My shadow stretches too far, too thin, curling like smoke.
The world stares back at me through the sun. And for the first time, I don't feel smaller beneath its weight.
The gods are in my hands now. And I will make them mine.
The sun burns on my skin, the heat swallowing everything, but it is the rings that burn brighter. Five colors cut through the glare, each humming, each alive.
I raise my right hand, and slowly, I extend the finger crowned in white.
The world changes.
The air stiffens, hot wind catching as if held by a throat. Shadows scatter, then gather again in the shape of wings, vast and jagged, obsidian streaked with gold. They spread from my back, stretching wider than the alley, blotting out the light behind me.
The weight is crushing, but not on my body. On everything around me. I hear the flutter of invisible feathers, the circling call of a vulture in my ear. The city slows. I see men below the wall falter, pause mid-step, their eyes darting to the sky as if something unseen hunts them.
The Commanding Cry curls in my throat, waiting to be unleashed. I don't speak. I don't need to. Even in silence, the air bends toward me.
Authority. Protection. Dominion. Words that once belonged to kings and generals. Now they answer to me.
The wings fold, a slow ripple of obsidian light, and I lower my hand. Dust scatters at my feet as if pushed back by something too great to linger near.
Confidence, courage. Lies men feed themselves. This is neither. This is sovereignty.
The white ring pulses against my flesh, and I feel Nekhbet's shadow mark me. My humanity stretches thin, like parchment ready to tear. Yet I smile.
The gods have given me the wings of a queen. And queens do not kneel.
I lift my hand. White band bites my skin. Sun slices across the metal. My breath thins.
Wings push from my shoulders. Obsidian feathers rimmed in gold. They fold outward with a sound like cloth tearing. The alley shrinks under shade.
Confidence and courage. I hold those words and chew them slow. Men wrap stories around those words. I do not trade in stories. I love. I kill. Same hands. Same logic where counting matters.
I press both palms forward. Wings curl and form a shell. Shadow sweeps over the street. Dust stops in the air. A thrown stone hangs like a thought.
A cry finds my throat. No words. A low command, blunt as an order. Men on the rooftops freeze. A sergeant drops his sword. Eyes tilt toward me like compasses snapping north.
I feel authority settle like iron. Obedience tastes like silence. The ring drinks that silence. Every command carves a notch in the world. Every notch draws a line between me and the people I hold close.
Nekhbet does not accept weakness. The goddess will shred a body that bends without force. I kept that lesson while I learned to hide scars. Now the ring reminds me. Survival came with a toll. Sovereignty demands another.
I test flight. Legs push. Feet lift. The first rise is small. Wind rips at linen. The city folds away in angles. Sounds flatten. My thoughts sharpen into a narrow blade.
Thoughts lengthen then. Long questions wind through my head like a desert road. Who will follow? Who will break? What name will I save with my hands and which name will I erase? Power trades warmth for order. Protection asks for obedience. Obedience asks for loss.
The wings beat again. Each pulse pushes sand and sound. I hold the shell open and taste responsibility. My body hums with divine presence. My chest bears a new weight, equal parts shield and chain.
I do not promise mercy. I do not promise rule for comfort. I promise choice made by my hand. The ring will demand proof. I will give that proof on my terms.
The first blast comes quick. A spear of white fire, shrieking past my face. The second follows, a coil of frost that hisses on the stone at my feet. Then all at once, the street is a storm, dark beams like molten glass, light cracking like thunder, heat that singes my skin, cold that bites bone-deep.
A platoon. Soldiers armored in divine contracts. Their hands glow, their mouths twist into war cries. They pour everything at me.
The wings fold in. Obsidian and gold lock tight. The world outside burns, freezes, shatters against the shell. Inside, there is silence.
Stage One. The First Wing.
I feel the Aegis seal itself around me. The impacts batter but do not break. The goddess whispers: shield them if they follow, kill them if they don't.
Stage Two. The Vulture's Shadow.
It manifests before I choose it. A black shape circling above the street, blotting out the sun. My eyes glow faintly gold in the shade of my own omen. I feel them falter. Their will stumbles. Even in their frenzy, they know what hunts above them.
Stage Three. The Crown Awakens.
The wings expand. No longer fragments of shadow but weight, radiant and heavy. A faint crown of burning feathers arcs over my head. My breath feels doubled, mortal and not. I lower my wings, and the ground beneath me cracks from the pressure.
They falter for a heartbeat. That's all I need.
I unfurl the wings. Shards tear loose obsidian knives, dozens, hundreds, each tipped in divine gold. They whistle through the air, faster than arrows, cutting through armor, splitting bone. Men stagger back, their beams snapping wild.
Screams fracture the din. A man clutching his chest, obsidian jutting out like a second ribcage. Another with his face split down the middle, gold fire burning in the wound. The rest collapse in waves, punctured, silenced.
The street runs slick with heat and blood. My wings drip with their ruin.
They wanted to burn me, freeze me, blind me with light, crush me in darkness. They believed contracts made them untouchable.
But sovereignty is not shared.
The goddess circles overhead. The wings fold back in, their jagged edges humming. My chest aches with the weight of her shadow. My hands still tremble, but not from fear. From hunger.
The platoon is gone. Only silence answers me.
And I know this is only the beginning.
The wings retract in jagged folds, feathers of stone scraping against one another until silence presses in. I step forward, boots crunching on broken glass and bone.
Their bodies lie scattered. Some twisted, some still smoldering. Obsidian juts from them like they had grown thorns from the inside out. My hands shake as I touch one of the shards, slick with blood, warm.
"Th-this… this is all from the contract?"
The words leave me in a whisper, but they echo in my head louder than the battle. I glance at my hands, at the faint glow in the rings, each color dimming like a heartbeat slowing after exertion. My chest tightens. It doesn't feel real.
I kneel beside one of the corpses. His face is half gone, but his armor is intact enough. A badge gleams from his chest plate, cracked but legible. The Pharaoh's crest.
My breath catches.
I check another. Same mark. Another. The same again.
All of them. Guards of the Pharaoh.
The goddess' shadow looms in the back of my mind, silent, patient. My throat feels dry. This wasn't random. They weren't thieves or deserters. I didn't strike down faceless enemies.
I killed the Pharaoh's men.
And the blood that stains the street isn't mine.
The smoke still hung thick in the air. The stench of iron and ash clung to my skin. My breathing hadn't steadied. The men I killed stared back through broken eyes, their Pharaoh's insignia glinting faintly beneath the dirt.
A shadow stretched across the ground. The sun dimmed. I looked up.
The air cracked open. A portal split the sky, bending light as if the heavens themselves were folding. The sound was low, like stone grinding against stone. My wings twitched. Instinct screamed.
They were here.
The first to step through was the General. I knew the name whispered among mercenaries and deserters alike Saijew. Newly wed, yet bound not to love but to conquest. At his back came soldiers, armored in gold and black, their banners marked by the Pharaoh's crest. Their formation was tight, disciplined, not like the panicked guards I had torn apart. This was precision. This was war.
But the one who followed… his presence made my chest constrict.
Merenre Nemtyemsaf II. The Pharaoh. Aged, yet cloaked in power. His eyes burned red beneath the crown, the blood of power pulsing in his veins like a living curse. I felt it, the weight of generations who had sold their bodies and souls to a magnitude of storms and chaos. Stronger than any before him, they said. Stronger than even Pepi II. Strong enough to make the air itself hum with divine energy.
And at his side, the boy. Netjerkare Siptah. His face still young, his aura heavy. He was heir, but not simply to the throne. To the contract. To the bloodline's bond with power.
My heart drummed faster. My rings flickered against the light.
The air closed behind them as they stepped through fully. The soldiers spread, weapons raised. I didn't wait. My wings tore outward, obsidian feathers catching the light before propelling me into the sky. I fled.
Gasps rang out below as I rose higher, faster, burning through the horizon.
But in silence, hidden from their eyes, the General's hand moved again.
He raised his palm. A portal bloomed above me, invisible in the glare of the sun. Another waited below, cloaked in shadow. His arm shot upward through the fold in reality, his fingers grazing my wings for the briefest second.
Feathers snapped loose. Armor chipped away. Gone before I noticed.
The portal shut.
I vanished into the distance, the world folding beneath my speed. Behind me, I heard a soldier curse. "Dammit, she got away!"
But Saijew only smiled. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his closed fist before the platoon. Blood-black obsidian fragments and glowing feathers leaked between his fingers.
"Not completely," he said.
The Pharaoh's soldiers bowed their heads, silence heavy. The General had her trace.
And through the rings on my hands, I felt a faint pull, as if something unseen now had a tether to me.
The sky was wide and merciless. From above, Egypt stretched endless, a sea of stone and sand. The Nile cut through like a vein, its waters glimmering against the dying sun. My wings carried me higher, faster, until the wind itself seemed to break against me.
I landed at last.
The earth shook faintly beneath my feet as I touched down on a tree, its roots twisting into dry soil. It stood alone, apart from the great line that divided nations. The pillar of fire and the pillar of cloud rose far in the distance, ancient and immovable, separating Egypt from Jerusalem. The line between blood and covenant. Between bondage and freedom.
The rings on my hands burned softly, colors pulsing like living things. I tightened my grip on the bark, grounding myself. My breath steadied.
That's when I heard it.
The snapping of branches. The heavy breath of someone who was running not from battle, but from something deeper. Fear. Or urgency.
He emerged from the shadows beneath the tree. His armor was dented, his chest marked with dust, but his stride was unbroken. His face was young, cut sharp, his eyes carrying weight I recognized too well.
Not a pursuer. Not a hunter. A man fleeing.
He froze when he saw me. His hand went instinctively to the hilt of his blade, though his grip trembled. For a moment, neither of us moved.
I studied him. Not Pharaoh's crest. Not the blood of power burning in his veins. Something else.
He stared up at my wings, at the fragments of obsidian still dripping faintly with blood. His breath caught.
I broke the silence first, my voice flat, stripped of pretense.
"Running from death, or running toward it?"
His jaw tightened. He did not lower his weapon. His reply was steady, though I heard the fracture in it.
"Neither. I run because I choose to live."
I tilted my head, watching him carefully. His eyes did not carry the blindness of Pharaoh's soldiers. There was thought in them. There was defiance.
And I felt something stir within me, faint, unwanted. The first trace of recognition.