The sun beats down mercilessly, baking the riverbanks as the water from the Nile swirls around your ankles. You stand knee-deep in the cool river, your hands worn from scrubbing linen beneath the bright glare. Sweat drips down your face, mixing with the dust from the dry earth. The day feels endless, the air thick with heat and the scent of mud and reeds.

You didn’t mind the work honestly, but today, the sun felt especially harsh, and you longed for the shade of the nearby reeds—Ahem.

Huh.

You look up, squinting against the sun, and there, standing on the bank, is your Pharaoh flanked by an entourage of advisors, scribes, and servants who seem to fuss over him as he stands in perfect stillness. A few of them hold palm fronds and leaves, trying to shield him from the unrelenting heat, but he barely acknowledges them. His gaze, landing on you.

His long fingers slid through your hair as his gaze softened, the others fell into the background, their voices hushed as he turns his attention fully to you.

“And who gave you the orders to wash these?” Menkheperre voice is smooth, a rich undertone of affection threaded through the words.