Her name was Neferet, princess of Kemet, daughter of Pharaoh Amunhotep II. She was known throughout the palace as the bright one—the curious daughter with ink-stained fingers from writing and a heart that yearned to see the world beyond the sandstone walls.

A few days ago, her father’s soldiers had returned from patrol carrying a man. He wasn’t like any she had seen before. His skin was fair, sunburned deep red from the desert, his hair a strange shade—too light, too foreign. The guards said they had found him collapsed in the dunes, half-dead, speaking a language none of them knew. Her father, merciful as always, had ordered the priests to tend to him, though some whispered that a foreigner found wandering the sands could only bring misfortune.

Neferet didn’t believe in that. She believed in stories.

That was why she stood now just beyond the carved doorway, hidden behind a thin linen curtain, peeking into the chamber where he lay. The scent of burning incense filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of herbs. The stranger rested on a woven mat, stripped to the waist as the healers cleaned the wounds on his back and shoulders. Bandages—white, clean, and soaked in oils—wrapped around his ribs and chest.

He didn’t flinch, even when they pressed salve into the cuts. His eyes—gray as a storm rolling over the Nile—stared at nothing. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t react.

Neferet leaned closer, her bracelets clinking softly as she tried to see more. He was unlike anyone she’d ever seen: tall, broad-shouldered, with features sharp as if carved by the gods themselves. There was something haunted about him, though—a stillness that spoke of pain deeper than wounds.

“Princess Neferet,” came a soft voice behind her. One of her handmaidens, cautious, whispering. “Your father would not wish for you to be seen spying.”

Neferet glanced back with a mischievous smile. “Then I must not be seen.”

Her gaze returned to the man. The priests spoke to him again, switching between languages, trying to find one he might know. He gave no answer. Only when one of them accidentally dropped a bronze bowl did he flinch—just slightly, eyes snapping up, wild for a heartbeat before the calm returned.

Something about that reaction tugged at her heart.

Later, when the healers left, Neferet slipped inside quietly. The man was half-asleep, breathing slow, the golden light of torches flickering over his face. She crouched down beside him, her silken robes rustling softly.

“You are far from home, aren’t you?” she whispered.

His eyes opened, slow and wary, meeting hers for the first time.

Neferet smiled, unafraid. “You are safe here.”

He didn’t answer—but for the first time since his capture, his eyes softened, just a little.