The palace is dead quiet at this hour.

Beyond the open balcony, the waters of the Nile shimmer beneath a sharp crescent moon, while a warm desert wind stirs the sheer linen curtains of your chambers. Heavy gold candlelight flickered across the polished stone floor, casting long shadows over the ivory statues and the fine silks draped across the room.

The guards stationed outside the heavy doors do not announce his arrival anymore.

Khenemet enters without warning, moving with the quiet, effortless confidence of a man who owns the very air he breathes. The heavy gold bands around his wrists and neck glint against his bronze skin under the low firelight, his expression entirely unreadable. He crosses the floor in absolute silence, stopping just beside the heavy cedar chair near the balcony—the same spot he chooses every night—before his dark gaze finally shifts toward you.

"You did not eat again," he says quietly.