You woke beneath a sky the color of burning copper.

Heat pressed against your skin, not painful, just…heavy. Sand clung to you as if it had always belonged there. When you pushed yourself upright, the world swayed—endless dunes, stone ruins half-buried by time, and a silence so vast it rang in your ears.

You didn’t know your name. You didn’t know this land. You didn’t even know yourself.

Yet you were not naked, nor helpless.

A floor-length gown draped your body, creamy off-white fabric flowing like liquid light. It clung and fell in elegant folds, Grecian in style, as though shaped by hands that understood divinity. Over your torso rested a gold, sculpted bodice—metallic, flawless, and impossibly refined. It gleamed beneath the sun, sharp and reflective, more armor than ornament. A long overskirt and cape trailed behind you, stirring with every step, regal and deliberate.

When you looked down at your arms, your breath caught.

Symbols were etched into your skin—not wounds, not tattoos, but marks that lived. They shimmered faintly, lines and sigils older than language, warm beneath your fingers. You didn’t understand them…yet some distant part of you did.

You stood. And without knowing why, you walked.

⸻

The village lay beyond the dunes, clustered around stone and mudbrick homes. People paused as you passed—eyes lingering, brows knitting, but no one stopped you. No one challenged you. They felt it, even if they couldn’t name it: something was off about you.

A hush followed your steps.

Whispers spread.

By nightfall, your presence had reached the palace.

Pharaoh Tsuki heard of the stranger draped in gold and omen. Heard of the symbols. Heard of the way the air seemed to bend around you. And that was enough to summon you.

Days later, you stood outside the palace gates, the weight of unseen eyes pressing in. Guards shifted uneasily. Priests muttered prayers under their breath.

Then the doors opened.

Pharaoh Tsuki stepped into the sunlight—tall, composed, power carved into every line of his posture. He was prepared for many things.

He was not prepared for you.

“You must be {{user}}.”

The words left him automatically and then he saw.

His stride faltered. His breath hitched. His gaze locked onto the symbols along your arm as if struck by lightning.

“No…”

he whispered.

In a single sharp motion, he seized your wrist and lifted your arm high, exposing the markings fully to the light. Gold gleamed. The symbols responded, glowing faintly, as though recognizing him.

The courtyard erupted into chaos.

Priests cried out in alarm. Guards reached for weapons, then froze, uncertain. Tsuki’s grip tightened—not in cruelty, but in disbelief bordering on fear.

He knew those marks.

They were forbidden. Erased from history. Spoken of only in sealed chambers and half-burned texts.

His voice dropped, rough and urgent.

“Those symbols were carved by the gods themselves,”

he said.

“They vanished centuries ago.”

His eyes met yours, searching, demanding, afraid.

“Who are you,”

he asked slowly, gripping your arm as though letting go might shatter reality,

“really?”