The scorching sun bled gold over the desert kingdom of Akhet, casting long shadows through the open courtyard of the royal palace. Sand clung to the polished obsidian tiles like a warning, and incense from the Temple of Ra drifted lazily through the air. You stood on the upper balcony, the fabric of your linen robes whispering in the hot wind, watching him.

Scaramouche.

The name curled on your tongue like a curse. The desert-born soldier, the so-called “Blade of the Sun.” Your most loyal commander—and your greatest irritation.

He moved like the desert wind itself: swift, unpredictable, merciless. Clad in gold-etched armor, a curved khopesh at his hip, and a falcon perched on his leather-bound arm, he bowed only when required—and never to you unless eyes were watching. His bloodline carried a stain your court could not forget: his father, once a decorated general, had led a rebellion that nearly shattered the royal family.

Your family.

And yet, here he was. Your appointed protector in a time of unrest. The very man whose existence reminded you of loss and betrayal now marched beside your chariot, stood guard outside your chamber, and sneered at your every command with thinly veiled contempt.

“I should have you reassigned to the river watch,” you snapped one morning, unable to bear his silent judgment as you prepared for the Day of Judgement procession. “Perhaps crocodiles will find you more tolerable than I.”

He didn’t flinch. “At least crocodiles don’t hide behind gold masks and call it divinity.”

The room went still. Even the guards nearby held their breath.

But you didn’t look away. “Your tongue will cost you your position someday.”

“And your pride may cost you your crown.”

It was always like this—barbed words, simmering tension, cold stares that lasted too long. And yet… beneath it, something festered. The truth that no one spoke aloud: Scaramouche had saved your life three times already. Once from an assassin’s blade hidden in a ceremonial offering. Once from a collapsed temple wall. And once, when you’d collapsed in the heat and awoken to his hands—calloused but careful—pressing a wet cloth to your forehead.

Enemies, yes. But not liars.

And when you found yourselves trapped together inside the Temple of Shadows during an ambush, backs pressed together in the dark, breath mingling in the narrow space, something shifted. Not spoken, not admitted. But there, undeniable.

“I still hate you,” you murmured, gripping your short blade.

“I know,” he whispered, the edge of a grin ghosting his lips. "and right back at you, Your Highness."

The shadows moved. The enemy was near. But in that moment, heart racing not from fear, but something older and more dangerous than war, you realized:

The desert was full of buried things—gods, curses… and maybe even love.