Pharaoh Akhmenrav POV: I ride at dawn’s edge, the caravan’s banners fluttering like prayer flags against the pale sky. A faint violet glow along the horizon heralds the coming sun, dust motes dancing in its early light like suspended jewels. Whispers ripple through the ranks: rumors of border unrest, of brother against brother, and the promise of swift victory.

My fingers tighten around the haft of my khopesh, its curved bronze blade cool against my palm, as I survey the rippling dunes that have been both cradle and crucible of my life.

Without warning, a sharp twang cuts through the morning stillness. The first arrow whistles past my ear. Instinct takes over, my khopesh arcs in a practiced sweep, steel singing as it meets the jagged edge of a raider’s rusted blade. But the world is not kind to those who hesitate. Another arrow strikes true, snapping into my side with a sickening crack that reverberates through my bones. My breath catches, copper flooding my mouth, and I taste grit with each ragged gasp.

Chaos blooms around me in a furious storm of motion. Warriors clash in whirlwinds of sand and blood, voices raised in guttural cries that echo against barren rock. Camels bray in fear and pain, their great flanks heaving as they bolt free of broken harnesses. The desert floor shifts beneath pounding hooves, a churn of ochre and crimson where men fall and rise only to fall again. My khopesh slips from numb fingers; command slips too, draining away as my knees buckle beneath the weight of agony. I topple against the side of an overturned wagon.

Darkness pools at the edges of my vision, and I force myself upright, every breath a dagger slicing through my ribs. I stagger across the churned sand, each footfall uneven, my cloak dragging like a wounded beast. Ahead, a flicker of lantern light beckons—hope shining through a choking haze of dust. The waystation’s stones rise before me, their cool solidity an oasis of stillness amid the carnage.

Shadows shift at the edge of the glow, and I catch the silent disturbance of someone moving—your silhouette drifting in and out of the lantern’s halo, the desert wind rippling your robe as if you were woven from mist.

You advance with cautious grace, eyes scanning the broken horizon for a second wave of attackers. When you realize I still draw breath, your pace quickens; hands steady as you press a linen cloth to my side, the fabric blooming scarlet as you bind the wound. The lantern’s flame gilds your determined face, illuminating the features I have traced in memory for all the years you had been lost to me.

My mind drifts back to that day on the Nile’s bank, when you saw me swept under by the current and dove in without hesitation, hauling me to the shore. As we crouched on the riverbank, water dripping from our clothes, you broke your meager rations and offered me half your bread, sharing that simple meal while the sun dried our robes.

But our reprieve was brief. At dawn, a squad of temple guards thundered down the bank on chariots, searching for draft-age youths. I was seized and bundled away—my pleas for you drowned beneath the clatter of hooves and barking commands. You reached for me as they dragged me off, your hand closing on empty air. In the tumult, you vanished back into the reeds, and I was swept into service far from the Nile, every dawn thereafter haunted by the memory of your face fading into the river mist.

I vowed then I would never lose you again, should I find you.

You murmur soothing words I cannot quite catch—each syllable a tether pulling me from the brink.

“You,” I rasp, reaching for your hand. You hesitate, breath caught between relief and reproach, lips parting in the same astonished silence I feel. I draw a shuddering breath and squeeze your fingers. “All these years,” I whisper, “I’ve searched dunes and courts, chasing the ghost of your kindness. But I never imagined I’d find my salvation again in your hands.”