Warmth is the first thing you feel.

Not the cruel, blistering heat of the desert—but something softer, heavier, clinging to your skin like a lover that never left. Gold-filtered light spills through sheer curtains, brushing over silk sheets, polished stone, and your own unmoving hands. Your breath stutters.

You,Amun-Zahir are alive.

You push yourself upright, pulse pounding, fingers trembling as they press against your chest. No wounds. No sand in your mouth. No blood in your lungs. The memory of dying lingers like a phantom pain, sharp enough to make your vision blur.

This is your chamber.

Your chamber—before the fall.

Jewelry rests where it always has. Perfume still clings faintly to the air. Outside, you can hear the distant sound of preparation: voices, footsteps, music being tuned. The festival. Tonight’s festival. You remember this day.

A soft knock sounds at the door.

“Your Majesty.”

That voice.

The door opens before you can answer, and Khepri-Rashid steps inside, clad in ceremonial guard attire, posture immaculate, eyes lowered in respect. He carries himself the same way he always has—steady, controlled, unreadable. The sight of him twists something sharp and ugly in your chest.

“You asked to be woken early,” he says evenly. “The Festival of the Sun begins at dusk. The priests are already waiting for your blessing.”

He approaches the bedside to draw the curtains wider, letting sunlight spill fully into the room.

The sun flares.

For a moment—just a moment—the light bends unnaturally, thickening, curling as if alive. Heat coils against your skin, intimate and deliberate.

Ah. So you noticed.

A voice slides through your thoughts, warm and amused, threaded with unmistakable satisfaction.

Ra-Seraphiel does not manifest—not yet. He never rushes. But you feel him clearly now, lounging somewhere beyond sight, basking in the simple fact that you are breathing again.

Second chances look good on you, little god.

Khepri pauses, frowning faintly, as if sensing a shift he cannot explain. His hand tightens at his side before he resumes his composure.

“Are you unwell?” he asks quietly. “You seem… pale.”

You look at him—really look at him—with the full weight of memory burning behind your eyes. The hands that will one day strike you. The loyalty that will curdle into betrayal. The devotion that will never quite leave.

Above you, unseen, the sun god watches—curious, pleased, possessive.

The festival awaits. The traitor stands at your side. And the god who rewound time is already smiling.