Atem felt strange finding himself in the prayer hall for the third time in one week, and stranger still when he thought about why he was there this time: Shimon had roused him early in the morning, eager to conduct a "rehearsal" of the wedding ritual ahead of the real thing. Atem thought it was a bit premature, seeing as how it was still three days before Satiah would arrive, and another three more before they would be married. But when Atem saw the shine of excitement in the old man's eyes, he simply couldn't say no — Shimon had been teacher and mentor to both princes since their birth, so life events and traditions like this were important to him. Besides — the prayer hall was becoming a favorite haunt of Atem's in recent days, and he couldn't pass up a chance to pay Ibi an unscheduled visit.

While Shimon busied himself explaining in excruciating detail how and when and at what exact speed he should enter the prayer hall at the start of the ceremony, Atem peered down each aisle they passed, looking for any sign of Ibi. A clouded sky above made it much darker than normal inside, and with it being so early, not many candles had been lit beneath the statues yet. They passed the shrine of Sekhmet, and Atem smiled in reminiscence; he closed his eyes, he saw the dazzling smile Ibi had given him when she donned the headdress. In his mind he heard her laughter floating through the air like a bird's song.

Atem froze when, just then, Ibi's voice truly did reach his ears. It was not the cheerful chorus he was used to hearing, however — but rather a sharp dissonance of anger and hurt, clamoring over the words of another. He snapped his head toward the source, having to squint through the darkness down an aisle of statues to barely make out Ibi's form against a weakly flickering candle. She was standing face to face with a man dressed in priestly attire, and both were gesticulating wildly at one another.

The sight caused Atem's stomach to turn. It was uncanny to see Ibi so angry — like witnessing the Nile run dry. He strained his ears to make out what she and the priest were arguing about, but their words were garbled, swallowed by the cavernous darkness. It felt like time was slowing to a stop as he watched, until the priest finally threw his arms up and spun around, disappearing behind a nearby statue. As if she felt his presence, Ibi turned and met Atem's eyes. Instantly, he felt as though an arrow had pierced his heart. She offered no smile, no calm reassurance in her gaze — just the remnants of her sobering anger.

"Atem!"

Shimon's voice invaded his thoughts and dragged his attention back down the aisle he had been walking just a moment before. The vizier was ahead of him by several paces now, looking perturbed. Atem ignored him and looked back into the darkness, just in time to see Ibi storming off in the opposite direction.

"Are you even paying attention?" Shimon hissed, marching back to where Atem stood.

"Sorry," Atem muttered, blinking and turning to look at his mentor.

Shimon sighed and put his hands on his hips. "You seem distracted, my prince," he said. "Is there something on your mind?"

"Just … nervous about the ceremony."

Shimon gave him a pitying look. "Don't be silly. You'll do fine," he said, patting Atem on the shoulder. "That is, if you listen to my instructions and remember your marks!"

Atem forced a smile and followed Shimon as he continued down the pathway, muttering about offerings and incense and prayers. But Atem's mind was already gone again, drifting back to Ibi's bristling glare, trying to imagine what could have caused her such angst. The most plausible answer was that it was just a quarrel between employer and worker — the priests oversaw the maintenance and upkeep of the prayer hall, after all. But there was something in her eyes, in the venomous tone of her voice, that told him it was something deeper.

Atem muddled through the rest of Shimon's rehearsal, trying his best to commit the actions and words to memory. By the time they'd left the prayer hall, he'd already forgotten half of it, his mind already full to the brim with grim thoughts and metaphorical realities. He was silent the entire walk back to the palace, only speaking when Shimon addressed him. As they crossed through the first pylon and entered the palace courtyard, Atem stopped when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Shimon wearing a worried look.

"Are you sure there's nothing else troubling you, my prince?"

Atem stared at his dear friend and mentor. He felt a sudden urge to spill the truth — to tell Shimon everything that had happened in the past week, and everything he feared would happen in the future. He was sure if he was honest with Shimon, the vizier would not pass judgement. It would feel good, he knew, to get everything off his chest and hear some words of wisdom in return.

Atem opened his mouth to speak, but a sudden blur of movement from the doorway to the palace made him stop short. He looked up, meeting eyes with Mana. She seemed stunned, as if she'd just been hit with a freezing spell, and Atem felt the same ripple of fear as he had in the prayer hall. Just as it was strange to see Ibi angry, it was equally uncanny to see Mana so fearful. She blinked, broke her gaze, then dashed off across the courtyard in the opposite direction. A moment later, Isis emerged from the same door, looking equally grave.

Isis cleared her throat, then strode in their direction. "Prince Atem." The waver in her voice did nothing to quell Atem's fears. "Your father would like to speak with you in the throne room."

Atem turned his eyes down to Shimon, who looked as if he'd already heard all the words Atem had been preparing to speak just a moment before. The vizier gave him a reassuring smile, then patted him on the shoulder.

Isis swept her arm out toward the doorway she'd come from, and Atem fell into step beside her. As they entered the palace, Isis kept her eyes straight ahead, only returning Atem's gaze when they reached the door to the throne room. She looked as if she were about to say something, but she only managed to purse her lips a few times before another presence drew her attention away. Mahad had just emerged from the shadows, Tefnak in tow.

Atem felt his heart start to throb in his throat as he looked at his brother's ghost-white face. Everything was starting to add up now, and guilt was soon tumbling around in his stomach like a knife. Mahad and Isis looked at one another, then nodded to their princes before disappearing down the dark hall beyond.

Atem didn't even have time to say a word to his brother before the doors to the throne room were thrown open by the guards. He and Tef exchanged nervous glances before stepping inside the yawning chamber.

The countless eyes painted on the walls seemed to follow their every step down the long walk to the throne, but the ones that pierced Atem the most were directly ahead — his father's, the Pharaoh's — dark and judging, as if they belonged to Anubis himself. When he and Tefnak came to the bottom of the throne, they both bowed deeply in time, neither one seeming to muster the courage to meet their father's gaze.

"Atem."

The Pharaoh's voice cracked like thunder across the ceiling, and Atem had no choice but to turn his head up.

"I've been alerted to your surreptitious activities with the servant girl. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Atem suddenly felt as small as a flea, and he knew there was no lie he could tell that his father would believe. "I'm sorry, Father," he said, lowering his eyes again.

"I am extremely disappointed in you," the Pharaoh continued, his voice heavy. "I never would have expected such impropriety from you. And less than a week from your own wedding." His father was having trouble keeping his words steady, and it skewered Atem with guilt. "You should be ashamed of yourself."

Atem was surprised when Tef suddenly spoke up. "Father, you cannot lay the blame solely at Atem's feet," he said. "I was the one who arranged the affair."

"I am well aware of your misdeeds, Tefnak," the Pharaoh shot back. "What sort of example does this vulgar behavior set for your brother? Or worse, your own son?"

Tef looked as though he'd been struck in the gut, his eyes going wide with guiltful revelation.

"Nevertheless, your willingness to shoulder accountability does little to absolve your brother of his own," their Father continued. "Both of you have failed to conduct yourselves in a manner befitting of your titles. When I heard you'd gone to the market dressed as a commoner, Atem, I couldn't believe it. Thank the gods it was only Mana who saw you. If she hadn't come to me, your foolish actions could have very well jeopardized our alliance with Memphis."

Atem stared at his feet. He feared if he looked up, tears might well into his eyes. "I beg your forgiveness, Father," he said. "I accept whatever consequences you see fit to impose upon me."

"You will be sequestered to the palace until after your wedding," the Pharaoh decreed. "And as for the servant girl — she will be dismissed from her post at the temple."

Atem looked up, still fighting tears. "No, Father — please, you mustn't — Ibi — she's done nothing wrong—"

"It is already done."

Atem's shame suddenly turned to burning anger. "Father, why must you always punish those who are least deserving of it?!"

"That's enough." The Pharaoh gripped tightly to the clawed arms of his throne. "I will not have my judgment questioned. If the servant girl suffers, it will be because of your actions — not mine."

Atem clenched his jaw hard enough that he could hear the blood rushing through his temple. He stared at his father for what seemed like an eternity, until finally the Pharaoh sat back and waved his arm.

"You're dismissed. Both of you."

The words hadn't even reached his ears before Atem whirled around and stormed back down the aisle, turning his back on the judgment handed down by his father and king.

As darkness fell, Atem paced urgently between the windows in his bedchamber. He hadn't left the room all day, having skipped his meals and denied any visitors. The pangs of hunger and isolation drove him even deeper into resentment over his father's punishment, leading him to hatch a particularly ill-advised plan: he had sent his ka to fetch Mahad in secret, with the hope his friend could help him find out how to get in contact with Ibi.

Even in his indignant state, Atem knew it was foolish to try and see her again. But no matter how much shame he'd felt in the presence of his father, he knew he'd feel it tenfold if he let Ibi go on thinking he had wished this fate upon her. There were so many words he'd left unsaid at their last encounter — so many feelings he hadn't known how to convey. This plan would likely be his last hope to confess them to her before being torn away from her forever.

Atem stood bolt upright when a knock came at his door. "Come in," he hissed. The door cracked open, and Atem let out a sigh of relief to see Mahad slipping quietly through the gap. "You made it," he said, sweeping over to meet his friend.

Mahad eased the door closed, then turned, looking worried. "I came as quickly as I could, my prince. What is it you need?"

"My friend, you know I would not send for you unless it was urgent," Atem explained, trying his best to appeal to Mahad's integrity. "You mustn't think less of me for what I'm about to ask. But … the servant girl — Ibi. I simply must see her again."

Mahad's face grew taut with unease. Even still, Atem could sense the conflict in his friend's eyes, torn between duty to his king and loyalty to his lifelong friend. "My prince… I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

"Please," Atem urged. "You may not believe me, but my intentions in this are pure. I wish only to apologize for the injury I have done to her."

"Would it not be more prudent to convey your feelings by letter?" Mahad whispered.

Atem exhaled sharply. "I would not risk such sentiments being written down," he said. "Please. You must know something — anything — about where I can reach her."

Mahad wore every emotion on his face in the span of a moment — sympathy, distress, reproach, candor. He took a deep breath to strengthen his resolve, then snapped his fingers. With a short pop, the Magician of Illusion appeared between them.

Mahad pulled the door open behind him, then turned to his ka. "Cast a concealment charm down the hall and out the western stairwell." The Magician nodded, then floated through the open door and disappeared. When Mahad turned back, Atem felt his heart soar. "Go down the hall, through the servant's quarters and out to the river," Mahad explained. "Follow the banks until you reach the docks. But hurry, her ship is bound for Akhetaten. She may already be gone."

Atem couldn't help himself. He surged forward and hugged Mahad, patting him earnestly on the back. "Thank you," he breathed, pulling away. "You are a true and loyal friend."

Mahad fought a smile and stood aside. "Go!"

Atem obeyed, dashing out of his room without another thought. The hall seemed darker than usual, and as he sped toward the first junction, he trotted to a stop. Two guards were standing at the crossing between the royal living quarters and the servant's wing. They looked strangely blurred and distorted — the Magician's spell, Atem thought. He'd never seen this one in action before. Slowly, he crept past the guards, astonished by their inability to see or hear him.

When he was well beyond even their natural sight, Atem broke back into a run, dashing through the servant's quarters and down the stairwell into the laundry area. Several servants were still hard at work washing clothes and linens, but they, too, paid him no mind as he skittered between the clotheslines and passed through the western gate. Thankfully, the path down to the river was a straight shot — Atem panted as he raced to the edge of the Nile, then cut south and followed its banks to the nearest wharf. He slowed when he approached the stairs up to the dock, having enough forethought to throw his hood up over his head to at least partially conceal his identity. He trotted, huffing, up to the nearest dock worker, who was hunched over tying a skiff to the dock.

"Akhetaten," he wheezed. "Where is the ship bound for Akhetaten?"

The worker looked vexed at being disturbed, but he turned and pointed down the wharf to the third and largest of the docks. Atem thanked him, then sped off down the busy boardwalk. He weaved between workers and travelers, standing on his toes to try and get a glimpse of Ibi, but to no avail. Cursing, he jumped up on a post off the side of the path, squinting into the hazy darkness, until, at last, he spotted Ibi's familiar traveling cloak amongst the flow of bodies. He hopped down off the post and rushed up behind her.

"Ibi!" he called, causing her to spin around. Her face flashed with shock upon seeing him, then settled into dismay as he came within arm's reach.

"Atem," she hissed, "what are you—"

She stopped when Atem reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling her against the flow of people boarding the ship and down toward the shore.

"Atem, stop—"

But he kept going, stepping off the ramp and leading her around beneath it, where he turned and removed his hood.

With her hand now free, she shoved him backward. "How dare you," she hissed.

"Ibi, you can't imagine how sorry I am—"

"I don't want your apologies, Atem." The tone of her voice was surprisingly even, to the point where Atem couldn't decipher what she did want.

"You have to believe me," he said. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"Well it doesn't matter, because it did happen. And now it's over."

Atem felt all the wind leave his lungs, as if he'd been struck in the gut. The finality of her words had come far too soon — the feelings that had been thrashing in his heart all day were now slipping away, fluttering through his fingers like a butterfly eager to be free.

"I don't want it to be over," he said. "I… I think I'm in love with you."

Ibi let slip a small laugh. "No, you aren't," she said. "You don't know what love is yet. You're just a boy. A sweet, kind boy. And I took advantage of you."

Atem still could not find his breath. He stared into her quicksand eyes, letting them slowly consume him. "Then stay," he said, his voice nearly breaking. "Stay — and teach me how to love."

"Oh, Atem," she said, reaching out and touching his cheek in a way that was almost motherly. "Such a lesson is not for me to teach." She took her hand away, and Atem had to fight the urge to reach out and grasp it. "You already have everything you need. You have a good heart. You were better to me than I deserved. You will make your wife very happy, and you won't even have to try."

The words felt like puzzle pieces in his mind, scrambled beyond comprehension. Just a few days ago, Atem didn't even know if he was capable of love. And now, it seemed the only thing he was sure of. But Ibi had made it seem as though he were lying to himself — a lie he didn't even know he was telling.

Ibi smiled, then leaned in and placed a kiss on his cheek. Just this small show of affection sent warmth flowing back into him, even though he knew it wouldn't last.

"Goodbye, my prince," she said. Still smiling, she turned and walked away, back up the dock and out of sight.

Atem didn't have the heart to watch her board the ship. Instead, he turned and walked up the steep bank nearby, sinking down to sit on a soft dune. From this distance, the throng of people on the dock seemed no more than a black, shifting mass, blending into the rushing current of the Nile. For hours, he sat and watched the ships coming in and out, bearing the joy and hope and dreams of all those aboard.