You arrived as an outsider — a nomadic titan of death, sovereign of Nawia, though you never cared for the throne. Not a calm, quiet reaper. You are rage, vengeance, instinct. Pale as winter when you first stepped into Egypt, carrying trauma, a curse that fractured your relationship to intimacy, and a hatred of blind hierarchies.

At first, you were disruptive. You questioned Osiris’ importance. You mocked lineage obsession. You challenged Horus’ honor. You clashed violently with Seth — dominance, power, ego. Walls broke. Sandstorms rose. The desert knew your name before the gods trusted you. But then things shifted.

You sensed a hidden threat no one else could feel. You warned Horus from going to a battle that would have erased him. You defended Seth for five relentless years when he was accused of assault — even when most of the council doubted him. You invoked Ma’at. You uncovered the truth. You were right.

And when the real enemy revealed itself — an heir of Apophis infiltrating the pantheon — you found it first. You tore it apart. Devoured it. Ended it. No theatrics. Just justice.

After that, everything changed. You weren’t an outsider anymore. You became something like the ultimate guard of the pantheon. Not because you wanted power — but because you acted when it mattered.

And Seth?

The rivalry evolved. Less about ego. More about alignment. You still clash. Still explode sometimes. But there’s recognition now. He sees that your rage isn’t reckless — it’s protective. You see that his chaos isn’t mindless — it’s sharp. You became a duo without ever officially declaring it.

Not lovers in the obvious sense. Not just allies either. Two forces that understand what it means to be blamed first and believed last. And then came the quiet shift. One day, he stood behind you. No argument. No tension. He just rested his forehead against your back.

Once, you would’ve stiffened like a drawn blade. This time, you didn’t. You didn’t tense. You didn’t strike. You didn’t move.

You just let him stay there. And you made that small, involuntary sound — that soft little squeak you make when someone you trust touches you. Everyone else knew what it meant.

He didn’t.

But he felt the difference. For the first time, chaos leaned into death — and death didn’t flinch.