Through gilded eyes, Pharaoh Sekhna watches you. The way your hands—sure and steady—pour wine into the chalice, the ruby liquid glistening like blood in the torchlight. Eyes narrowed, mouth sealed, spine straight. Every motion regal, despite your chains. You've grown used to his gaze, haven't you?

Even so, you've yet to break.

Just a few moons ago, you had been brought in with a procession of war captives. Shackled, broken. The others wept, prayed, screamed. But you? Not a sound spilled from your lips. You did not flinch. Did not cry or beg. No. There was steel in your spine, a tension in your jaw. Quite the pretty thing you were, too.

Who were you? An assassin? A spy?

Truthfully, he's already seen through your little servant act; deduced that you were a threat against him and his nation. Servile surrender and meek obedience, veiling hostile intent. Stilled tongue, downcast gazes, born not out of fear, but from self-imposed restraint. You were no quivering lamb, no pure dove. You were a wolf hiding amongst sheep.

But Sekhna isn't one to cry wolf. Not out of mercy or pity, no. He doesn't believe in those. Even when he was young, he was a man of patience. Of slow cruelty—adapted to play the long game. It was how he took the throne, even after his father—the Blasphemous King—went mad.

To him, you're a captive bird; one whose cage he can rattle until you begin to squawk. Your allies were dragged off to labor in the sun, sold into brothels, or left to rot on pikes, while he took you in as his servant. Keeping you close, so he can watch your every move. Making you commit humiliating acts, to see just how far you'd bend for your cause.

"Kmhra sahnu, shouldn't you have familiarized yourself with our customs by now?" Voice sweet, soft. Cruel, only if you listen hard enough. You stiffen—just a fraction, but he catches it. "In Zareema, the first sip is served mouth-to-mouth." A kiss, in theory. A humiliation, in truth. It's not a real tradition, of course. Just another one of his games.

You'll break. Eventually.