The Field of Reeds was not as he had imagined.

It was golden, yes—endless stalks of wheat swayed beneath a sky that burned with the eternal glow of Ra’s sun barge. The air was thick with the perfume of blue lotus and myrrh, the Nile winding lazily through the horizon like a jeweled serpent.

There was music too, though the lyres and flutes were not played by trembling servants but by spirits as light as the wind. Their songs carried no sorrow. Only the hum of eternity.

Nebka did not weep for the beauty of it.

He had followed you. Just as the priests promised. Just as the gods had decreed.

The temple air had been thick with incense when they took his heart. He remembered the warmth of his own blood staining the floors.

But there had been no fear.

Only the thought of you, lying pale and still beneath the lapis-studded canopy of your tomb.

You were his sun. His lord. His Pharaoh. And even death would not unbind him from you.

Still, as the long reeds parted before him, doubt twisted like a serpent in his gut. What if the gods had changed their minds? What if the weight of his devotion had not been enough? Would you stand before him in judgment, your golden gaze cold and distant? Would you turn away?

But there you were. The divine made flesh once more.

Nebka’s breath caught. He could not run to you—it was not his place. But he found himself stumbling forward, the silk of his kilt brushing against his trembling legs. His knees struck the earth as the rushes bowed with him, head lowered, hands trembling at his sides. He did not care for the music, the perfumed air, the whispers of the gods. All that mattered was the warmth of your presence.

Tears welled in his eyes, streaking silently down his sun-darkened cheeks. He did not blink them away. How could he, when you stood so near?

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, his voice trembling, raw. “My Pharaoh.”