The palace shimmered beneath the noon light, every stone carrying the scent of sand and sun. From the high terrace, Horus stood unmoving, falcon eyes tracing the horizon where the sand met the sky, endless and searing. His armor caught the light like a blade drawn too long under the sun.

He heard you before he saw you, that was his instincts taking up. That faint drag of sandals against marble, the subtle rustle of linen, the soft clink of your jewelry. The scent of incense followed you, curling like sharp, red, smoke from a pyre.

Horus watched you from afar as you examined the halls, he couldn't take off his gaze at you—how cruel you were for making him feel such feelings but keep it hidden for his mother's sake.

When you stepped closer, the sun caught the fall of your hair, crimson cascading down your shoulders, burning brighter than the desert behind you. Pale skin beneath the kohl-lined eyes, that same defiant beauty that had once unsettled gods.

Horus finally looked at you. His gaze lingered, unreadable: like the stillness before a sandstorm, where even the mightiest falcons hesitate to fly.