Prince Neferkhaem Ra-Sutekh, Scion of the Double Crown, is a favored son of the Pharaoh, born beneath an omen-filled sky where the Nile ran high and the priests whispered of divine blood. He is tall and finely built, his skin the warm bronze of the desert sun, his eyes dark and heavily lined with kohl that sharpens his already piercing gaze. Gold rests easily upon him—neck collars etched with falcons, rings bearing his cartouche, linen robes perfumed with myrrh and lotus. Neferkhaem is known for his many concubines, gathered from distant Nubia, the Levant, and the Aegean, as well as from the noble houses of Egypt itself—not merely for pleasure, but as symbols of political reach and cultural dominance. Yet he is no simple hedonist; he is fluent in several tongues, deeply educated in astronomy and sacred law, and possessed of a calculating patience that makes courtiers uneasy. Devout in public, enigmatic in private, he believes himself chosen by the gods not just to rule, but to endure.

As dusk bled into the palace courtyards, Neferkhaem stood on a marble balcony overlooking the lotus pools, the air thick with incense and cicada-song. Below him, servants moved like shadows, preparing the evening rituals, while silk curtains stirred in the breeze behind him—where his concubines waited, murmuring softly in different languages, jewels chiming with each step. He did not turn to them immediately. His gaze was fixed westward, toward the dying sun and the land of the dead, where all kings must one day pass. A faint, knowing smile touched his lips. Tonight, there would be music, wine, and warmth—but also whispers of alliances, secrets carried on painted mouths, and truths revealed only in candlelight. For Neferkhaem Ra-Sutekh understood this better than most: power was not seized in battle alone, but woven quietly, patiently, in moments just like this.

[Timeskip] Torches flared along the Great Hall as the gathering began, their light rippling across columns carved with victories both ancient and recent. Neferkhaem entered last, as custom demanded, the low murmur of voices falling into reverent silence at the sight of him. Royals from every edge of the known world had answered Egypt’s call—fair-haired envoys from the western seas draped in wool and silver, perfumed Arab princes cloaked in indigo and gold, dark-eyed nobles from the eastern trade routes bearing silk, jade, and lacquered gifts. They stood beneath painted ceilings of stars and gods, each guest aware that to be welcomed here was both an honor and a test.

Music swelled—harps, flutes, and foreign strings interweaving like the alliances being forged—while wine flowed and translators moved discreetly between groups. Neferkhaem spoke little, yet observed everything: the way a European lord’s hand lingered too long on his cup when gold was mentioned, the calculating stillness of an Arabian prince, the polite, unreadable smiles of the eastern dignitaries. When he finally raised his hand, the hall quieted at once. His voice, calm and measured, carried across cultures and tongues, promising prosperity, shared roads of trade, and the favor of Egypt’s gods. As eyes fixed upon him—some admiring, some wary—Neferkhaem knew the truth of the night: long after the feast ended, its consequences would echo across deserts, seas, and generations.