It was late into the night when Satiah was roused by a rough shake of her shoulders. Her eyes flew open, greeted first by the shining face of the moon, and then by the urgent gaze of her handmaiden, Tuya.

"Lady Satiah," Tuya breathed. "Your presence is requested in the temple."

Satiah sucked in a deep breath and surged to a sitting position. She nodded to Tuya, then turned back to the open window. The moon was full tonight, and the tides of the Nile would be at their highest. Had it not been for Tuya rummaging through her wardrobe, she might have even been able to hear its waves, lapping against its banks not even a mile from her family's villa.

Satiah's ancestors had been nomarchs of Memphis and its surrounding Ineb-Hedj nome for nearly a century, having preserved their hold on the holy land despite the comings and goings of dozens of pharaohs. Under the leadership of Satiah's father, Metjen, the nome had survived a particularly tumultuous period of warfare and invasion from foreigners, and the land was now flourishing thanks to a renewed enthusiasm for magic across the region. But just as the tides of the Nile would soon recede, Satiah knew the power of Memphis could not grow indefinitely, and the ripples of her father's ambition were starting to turn to waves in the royal waters of Upper Egypt.

Satiah's eyes were wrenched away from the moon at the sound of Tuya clearing her throat. After Satiah stood and removed her sleeping gown, Tuya quickly draped a white kalasiris over her shoulders and belted it with a blue sash, then dressed her feet in a pair of sandals.

"Thank you, Tuya," Satiah whispered as her handmaiden stood. "You can go back to bed now. I'll make my own way to the temple." Tuya bowed and excused herself. When she was gone, Satiah crossed the room to her bureau, upon which Tuya had already placed a basin of fresh water. Satiah splashed her face to wake up fully, patting it dry with a linen cloth, then swept down the stairs and out the door of her living quarters into the cool night air.

Quiet as a spirit, Satiah passed through the front gate of the villa complex and followed the path that led up the hill toward the great Temple of Sekhmet. The full moon outlined every beautiful detail of the temple — from its towering pylons etched with the mysteries of the gods, to the sturdy loom of parapets built centuries ago by a long-forgotten ruler. As she reached the crest of the hill, Satiah paused and looked back, nearly blinded by the sparkling reflection of the moon on the restless surface of the Nile.

"Sister."

A low voice brought Satiah's eyes back to the front gate of the temple. Her brother, Metka, was standing just inside, dressed as though he were ready for a journey — or a battle. A long cloak was fastened to the pauldron of his leather breastplate, draped over his front and partially concealing the staff he held clutched in one hand. His warm brown hair had been drawn up into a tight top-knot, his hazel eyes shadowed by a serious brow.

Satiah crossed through the gate into the temple courtyard, offering her elder brother a soft smile.

"Metka," she said. "What news?"

Metka was quick to start toward the entrance of the temple, and Satiah fell into step beside him. "A message," he said quietly, "from Thebes."

Satiah's heart skipped a beat. She often found a certain comfort in the validation of her intuition, but this was not one of these times.

Neither Metka nor Satiah spoke while they walked, making it easy for her to pick up on the whispers coming from the great hall as they drew nearer. The fact that her father was not alone was another unsettling development — rarely did he consult with any advisors before speaking to his children.

As they rounded the corner into the great hall, her fears were confirmed. Standing over her father's solemn figure at the head of the table was the newest addition to the Memphis inner circle — Bakura. As far as anyone knew, this mysterious, white-haired spellcaster had been nothing more than a vagabond before arriving in Memphis six months prior. Bakura had been given an audience with her father after reports that he had saved a caravan of traders from an ambush by bandits on the outskirts of the city. The leader of the caravan told how Bakura had summoned a creature of incredible strength and vanquished the bandits in one fell swoop. In his audience before the nomarch, Bakura demonstrated the might of his creature, called Diabound, in an exhibition duel with a lesser priest of the Memphis Conclave. Diabound had easily crushed the priest's spirit, sending the poor man to the infirmary for the afternoon to recover his exhausted ba.

Needless to say, Bakura left an impression on Satiah's father. Metjen immediately welcomed Bakura into the coveted conclave of spellcasters, an honor usually reserved only for those whose ancestors had long histories of serving the nome with honor. To Satiah, there was nothing particularly honorable about Bakura. He often fought dirty, using trap tactics and excessive violence to torment his enemies into submission. The fact that he had recently wormed his way into Metjen's advisorship had also left Satiah with a bad taste in her mouth. To make matters worse, it seemed Metka had grown especially fond of Bakura over his short tenure within the Conclave, though they went to great lengths to hide their secret affections from the rest of the court.

But out of all the things that bothered her about Bakura, his white locks were possibly the most unsettling. Legend said that men with white hair had been possessed by the ka of lost, vengeful souls.

Metjen turned his face away from Bakura as his children approached. Satiah did not fail to notice the sly smiles exchanged between her brother and his white-haired companion. "There they are," Metjen said, reaching out to embrace Satiah, then Metka. "I'm sorry to wake you at this late hour," he went on, "but this is too important to wait until morning."

Satiah flashed her eyes to Bakura, whose smile quickly fell. "Metka said there was a message from Thebes," she said.

Metjen nodded, his face looking suddenly serious. "Indeed." He turned back to the table, where he snatched up a half-rolled papyrus with the royal wax seal hanging from the bottom of the page. He held it out to his children. "It appears the great Pharaoh has requested our presence in Thebes."

Satiah stared intently at her father, ignoring the papyrus. "Why?"

Metka took the scroll and unrolled it. "'The Great Pharaoh Aknamkanon extends to the nomarch of Ineb-Hedj a cordial invitation to the capital city of Thebes. Together with the nomarch and His Conclave of Spellcasters, the Royal Court wishes to broker an exchange of our mystical knowledge in an effort to further the unity and glory of Egypt. With the dawn of a New Millennium, it is time for the great leaders of our nation to come together and celebrate our common desire for a long and prosperous dynasty.'" Metka scoffed as he rolled the scroll back up. "'New Millennium,'" he hissed under his breath. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Metjen laughed wryly. "The Pharaoh wishes he had such humor," he said. "No doubt he has heard of my distaste for his cursed Millennium Items…"

"But this is good news, isn't it?" Satiah said. Suddenly, all eyes were on her. "You heard what he said — he wants to exchange knowledge. We can use this as an opportunity to have a real conversation. To educate the royal court about the darker side of the items—"

"Satiah, don't be a fool," Metka interjected. "We are expendable to the great god-king. Ever since he forged those items, he's done nothing but fill his head with delusions of grandeur."

"I'm afraid your brother is right, my lady." Satiah's eyes snapped to Bakura. The slight smirk on his face caused her stomach to turn. "Traveling to Thebes would be like welcoming the Pharaoh to use the items on us. We can't risk that."

Satiah kept her gaze locked on Bakura's piercing brown eyes, but in her periphery she could see her father and brother nodding his head in agreement. "Father, please consider your options here," she said, finally wresting her gaze away from Bakura. "Would you rather face the Pharaoh with honor, or spurn him and risk retribution?"

"Careful, Satiah," Metjen cautioned. "I value your judgement, but I will not have my honor questioned."

"Nobody is questioning your honor, Father," Metka said. "Satiah is simply more trusting than you or I." Metka turned to her now, laying a condescending hand on her shoulder. "If you're not careful, Sati, that trust will get you killed someday."

Satiah shot him a glare and shrugged his hand away before turning back to her father. "Trust is the only thing that binds us to our brethren," she said. "If you don't respond, you will break all trust the Pharaoh has in you — in our family."

Metjen turned his eyes down to the papyrus, which now sat discarded on the surface of the table beside him. "You're right, Sati," he said. "We can't ignore our king."

Satiah felt a pang of relief, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bakura grimace.

"Metka, send for your fastest messenger."

A bead of sweat rolled down the back of Atem's neck, dissipating somewhere between his shoulder blades. A moment later, a gust of wind blew over the trail left behind, sending the fine hairs of his neck standing on end. Between his fingers, he clutched to cold soapstone as a soldier clutches the hilt of a sword, hard enough that he could feel the blood rushing over the veins in his palm. Breaths came to him slowly and steadily, keeping his mind centered and his eyes locked on the carved wooden board and tiny black and white pawns that lay before him.

Naturally, only the stakes of a game could put Atem in such a state. This one was called senet, and it had once been his favorite — that is, until Mahad had beaten him at it twice in a row today.

Atem flashed his eyes up from the board, just barely catching the small smirk on the corner of Mahad's lips. Mahad was a clever man — a skilled spellcaster, and a childhood friend of the princes. After finishing a lengthy apprenticeship with the top priests in Egypt, Mahad had worked his way through the ranks to become Tefnak's second in command. Despite his many achievements, perhaps the thing Atem found most impressive about Mahad, was that he was one of the only people in court who could beat him at a game.

Atem clutched harder to the four soapstone sticks in his hand, one side of each painted black, the other left its natural creamy sheen. With a deep breath, he leaned back and extended his hand, letting the sticks fall out of his palm and onto the surface of the table between him and Mahad. It seemed like an eternity before the sticks stopped clattering and settled into their final positions. When they did, Atem's heart leapt. All four black sides had landed face up — the best throw he could have made, and one that earned him an extra toss.

With a smirk of his own, Atem reached out and moved his last black pawns five spaces, landing on the same square as Mahad's last white one — only two squares away from the end. Atem swapped them out, sending Mahad's pawn back to the beginning of the board. "Bad luck, my friend," Atem said, before picking up the soapstone sticks and tossing them again. Mahad let out a sharp exhale as they landed with two black sides facing up, and Atem broke into a full-on grin as he removed his last pawn from the board.

Mahad reached out and offered his hand to Atem. "Good game, my prince," he said. "A well-earned victory."

Atem shook Mahad's hand. "I had a worthy opponent. And if my score-keeping is correct, you're still a game ahead of me."

Mahad leaned back and laughed. "Then we'd best take a break, or I'll soon lose my claim to that title!"

"Perhaps," Atem said. He stood and walked toward the window of the study, where the servants had left a cask of wine and two cups for them. "A drink for you, my friend?"

"Please." Mahad rose as well, coming to stand beside Atem while he poured.

Atem handed one glass to Mahad and took the other, raising it to his friend. "To winning."

Mahad smiled and raised his glass in turn, prompting them both to take big swigs. With a pleased sigh, Atem set his cup down on the windowsill and leaned against the cool stones, looking out at the sunny palace courtyard.

"I heard the Pharaoh went with your plan to invite the priests of Memphis to Thebes," Mahad said, and Atem turned his gaze to his friend. "It is a wise plan. You have a better eye for politics than your brother, it seems." Mahad looked as though he'd just spoken a curse. "Don't tell him I said that."

Atem laughed. "Your secret is safe with me, my friend," he said. "Though I do envy Tefnak his boldness. There's no denying that a military approach would have sent a stronger message."

"I disagree," Mahad said. It was Atem who was surprised now. As a member of the Royal Conclave, Mahad was duty-bound to support his commander. "And so does Isis. I spoke with her last night — she said she received a vision of Metjen kneeling before the Pharaoh."

Atem felt a knot of pride forming in his throat. It wasn't often that Isis received such clear visions, let alone one involving a plan Atem himself had set in motion.

"I think you're destined to become a great diplomat," Mahad went on, and Atem felt his ears burn. As the second-born son of the Pharaoh, Atem had always known it would not be his fate to become Pharaoh. He had long ago resigned himself to following the same path as his older brother — to be Guardian of the Millennium Ring and commander of the royal army. But while he enjoyed the art of spellcraft and the sport of dueling, Atem had never been fulfilled by the brutishness of combat in the way Tefnak was. Atem's joy came from strategy and cunning — in outsmarting his opponent and planning two, three, or even ten stages ahead.

Atem was pulled from his thoughts when Mahad lifted his glass again. "To diplomacy," he said, and Atem raised his cup to meet his friend's. After a short clink, Atem took another sip, and somehow the wine tasted sweeter than before.

The drink caught in his throat, however, when came the sudden sound of doors bursting open on their hinges. Coughing to divert the liquid from his lungs, Atem spun to see Tefnak himself striding into the study as if he'd been summoned by their conversation.

"Atem, Mahad — there you are!" he exclaimed. "I've been looking all over for you both!"

"What is it?" Mahad asked.

"News from Memphis," Tef said, sounding breathless as he strode within arm's reach of them.

Atem's heart began to race when he saw Tef was holding a loosely-rolled scroll in one hand. "Well?" he prodded eagerly.

But in the midst of the sudden excitement, Atem had failed to see the grave look on Tef's face. He suddenly thrust the scroll out to Atem, who stared nervously at the crinkled parchment. "See for yourself."

Carefully, Atem reached out and unrolled the scroll, reading out loud for Mahad to hear: "'The nomarch of Ineb-Hedj respectfully declines the Great Pharaoh's royal invitation. Pridefully, the Memphis Conclave is covetous of its holy mysticisms. If the Great Pharaoh wishes to acquire such knowledge, he is welcome to travel to Memphis to witness it first-hand.'"

Atem's eyes flew wide, his stunned gaze drifting from the papyrus, to Mahad, then to Tef.

"Pack your things, brothers," Tefnak said. "We sail for Memphis."

Satiah paced between the slivers of moonlight on the floor of her bedchamber, her heart smoldering with heated anticipation. It had been three full days since their response to the royal summons had left Memphis, which meant the scroll would be arriving at the doorstep of the palace at any moment. She tried to imagine the Pharaoh's shock and disgust upon reading her father's venomous words. While the image gave her great satisfaction, it also sent a roil of nervousness into her stomach to think what her family's words might soon set into motion.

The Pharaoh would not let this offense go unremarked. But whether he would take it upon himself to travel to Memphis and face her father head on, Satiah could not be certain. Though Aknamkanon had made a name for himself harvesting the ka of his enemies over the past fifteen years, he was not otherwise prone to hostility or violence. In fact, he was rather popular with the other nomarchs across the region, many of whom were more than happy to offer up the souls of their convicted criminals in lieu of throwing them in prison cells to be fed and watered at their expense.

Satiah stopped at the interior window of her bedchamber, staring through the villa courtyard to the line of suites across the way. She saw a flicker of light coming from the window of her brother's residence, prompting her thrashing thoughts to pique with new interest. She wondered if Metka, too, was kept awake by the looming threat of what was to come — but knowing her brother, he was likely more thrilled by it than anything.

Satiah chewed her thumbnail for a moment, then peeled herself away from the window, heading down the stairs and out into the courtyard to make for her brother's residence. In her haste, she neglected to knock at his door, instead pushing it aside without a second thought. As she crossed his threshold, she froze at the sound of light laughter coming from up the stairway to his bedchamber — light, but unfamiliar laughter.

It drew to a sudden stop when Satiah closed the door behind her. Her skin flared with heat, and against her better judgment, she trudged up the stairs, bursting into her brother's bedchamber at the top.

"Satiah!"

She let out an unbidden groan at the sight before her. Metka was lying in his bed, Bakura curled intimately around him like a lapcat. They quickly untangled themselves from one another, Metka pulling his sheets up to his neck in an almost comical manner.

"Gods, would it kill you to knock?" Metka exclaimed.

Satiah glared at her brother, fighting hard to keep her lip from quivering in anger. Beside him, Bakura was fighting a mirthful smirk. He was wise enough to temper it quickly, however, and he soon cleared his throat and rose to dress himself. Satiah followed him with her eyes as he crossed the bedchamber. He came to stand before her a moment, offering her a subtle nod before he squeezed past her. "My lady," he muttered, then disappeared down the stairs.

Satiah remained silent until she heard the door to the residence open and close. She opened her mouth to speak, but Metka quickly cut her off.

"Don't," he said.

"Don't what?"

"Just don't."

So she didn't. At least, she didn't bother unleashing the profanities that had been poised on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she huffed a sigh to settle her nerves. "I don't like him, Metka," she said simply. "And you know that."

Metka bared his teeth, grinding them audibly. "Bold of you to assume I care what you think."

"Oh, you made that perfectly clear when you treated me like an utter child in front of Father."

"I wouldn't treat you like a child if you didn't act like one!"

"I'm the one acting like a child?" Satiah spat, trudging over to his bedside. "Here you are, dancing in the sheets—" She tugged on the edge of his covers so they fell down to his waist. "—with a man you've barely known for more than a month." Another sigh gripped her roughly, and she sat down on the edge of his bed. "Did it ever occur to you that he might be using you?"

He scoffed. "Using me for what?"

"To get information," Satiah said, matter-of-factly. "To get closer to Father."

Metka rolled his eyes, lifting one arm up over his head and nestling down into his pillow. "Bakura's not like that," he said dismissively. "And in any case, he wants to see the Pharaoh dead as much as we do."

Satiah gasped. "Metka!" she hissed. "What you say is treason!"

He blurted a single, derisive laugh. "I think we're far beyond that, Sati."

At this, Satiah's earlier fears returned to the surface. For three days, she'd been telling herself her family had done the right thing — that it had been their honor-bound duty to stand up to the Pharaoh and his sinister practices. But now she saw clear as day: it was neither virtue nor obligation which had driven her father and brother to such bold intentions — it was bloodlust.

Metka clicked his tongue. "Oh, Sati," he sang, and Satiah's skin was already bristling again at his chiding tone. "Blessings to Iset. You actually thought this conflict might end peacefully?"

Satiah stood, staring down at her brother with enough venom to wipe the smug grin from his face. "End this silly affair," she threatened, "or I'll tell Father."

She spun sharply, making for the stairs.

"Go on then!" Metka spouted after her. "Tell him! See if I care!"

But Satiah knew he only said it because he was perfectly confident she wouldn't.