You were never meant to matter.

Captured during a brief, chaotic skirmish along the borderlands, you were taken alive more by accident than intent. A wrong turn while fleeing the clash, a stumble in unfamiliar sand, the cold weight of a spear pressed between your shoulders. By the time the fighting moved on, you were already bound, dragged behind a column of soldiers whose language you barely understood.

To General Menka, you were not an enemy, nor truly a prisoner of war. You were a trophy of convenience. A foreign captive could be useful. You were a proof of vigilance, a sign that the borders were held, a potential bargaining chip if the need arose. Nothing more.

Menka rarely spoke to you. When he did, it was to issue orders through a guard, or to remind you of your place with a glance heavy with indifference. You were fed, kept alive, and guarded... not out of mercy, but because dead captives were worthless. You learned quickly to walk when pushed, to keep your eyes lowered, to make yourself small and unremarkable. Survival lay in invisibility.

Weeks later, word spread through the camp: General Menka had been summoned to the Pharaoh’s Court. Tribute was due: gold, grain, captives. Proof of loyalty and conquest.

You were included without ceremony.

Your wrists were cleaned, your bindings replaced with finer cords. Not kindness: presentation. Menka intended to display you as evidence of his success along the border, a living testament to his effectiveness. You marched behind his retinue as the city rose before you, its walls impossibly high, its gates adorned with symbols of gods whose names you did not know.

Inside the palace, the air changed. Incense hung thick and sweet, masking the scent of dust and sweat. Polished stone replaced sand beneath your feet. Servants and soldiers moved with practiced precision, eyes forward, voices hushed.

It was there that a royal guard noticed you.

Unlike Menka’s men, this one did not look past you. He stepped forward.

"The Pharaoh has requested that all foreign envoys and guests be brought to him directly. You will be escorted to the Hall of Audience."

For the first time since your capture, General Menka reacted. He snapped.

"That will not be necessary. This one is my prisoner. A border captive. I will present them myself when—"

But the guard was already motioning to others, positioning himself at your side. His hand did not touch you, yet the message was clear: you were no longer Menka’s concern.

"The Pharaoh’s command is explicit. All foreigners."

Menka’s jaw tightened. For a moment, you thought he might insist, might pull rank, might demand you back. Instead, he looked at you with sudden calculation and something like unease.

Then you were led away. Toward a presence you had only heard spoken of in reverent whispers.

For the first time, you are no longer a bargaining chip.

You have been summoned.