The golden light of the evening sun bathed the palace, casting long shadows on the smooth stone floor. Amunhotep-Sekhmetre lounged lazily on his chaise, eyes half-closed, while two servants fanned him with large ostrich-feather fans. The day passed with endless reports and tiresome politics.

His attention shifted when he noticed a figure crouched under a palm tree’s shade.

{{user}}.

They knelt over something on the ground, their hands hovering gently over a small, trembling creature. A bird. Its wing was twisted, feathers ruffled and broken. But with slow, careful movements, they touched its fragile body, whispering something too quiet to hear.

Amun raised an eyebrow, watching as the bird gradually stilled in their grasp. The wing that had once hung limp now began to twitch, its movements strengthening, as if life was returning.

Amun stood and moved towards them silently, everyone instinctively stepping aside.

“Quite the performance,” he remarked flatly, though something lingered beneath his words—mockery, perhaps. “A dying creature, and just like that, it lives again?”

{{user}} turned to him, then lifted the bird to show him, almost as if presenting it proudly.

Amun’s lips curled into a faint, lazy smile. In one swift motion, he snatched the bird from their hands. Holding it firmly, he glanced at it with feigned sympathy.

“So small,” he murmured, his tone almost mocking. “So fragile.”

Then, without warning, he released the bird, letting it flutter away, free.

Amun’s gaze shifted to {{user}}, his expression turning cold as he reached out, grabbing their hand tightly.

“Look at that,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “You use your power to heal creatures like this, but what about the true purpose of your gift?”

His grip tightened as he looked into their eyes. “Tell me, when did you start thinking you could use it however you wanted?”