Satiah stood over a table folding cloth rags, trying to busy her hands with something — anything that might keep her mind off the threat of death that now clouded the infirmary. Behind her, Nebetah sat on a bench by her son's bedside, whispering gently and stroking his sweat-slicked forehead. Every once in a while, Meriti would twitch or moan, but his eyes remained closed to the world as he struggled against the poison coursing through his veins. Satiah could barely bring herself to look upon the child's face, her nerves already worn ragged from the sight.

It drove her mad with frustration — to be witness to so much suffering, unable to even lift a finger to stop it. She was not built to weather such adversity in silence, nor was she equipped to comfort a fearful mother. Satiah stole a glance over her shoulder, the evening sun catching the shimmer of Nebetah's tears and driving another angry stake into Satiah's heart. More than the health of her son, this woman deserved justice. Satiah could only hope that the princes would send Bakura to his grave for what he had done.

Exhaling sharply, Satiah moved to the end of the table, where servants had set out two cups and a pitcher of wine. She poured one cup, then walked to stand beside Nebetah. The princess jolted and looked up at the sight of Satiah's shadow looming over her son.

"You should drink something, Princess," Satiah whispered, handing her the cup. "You'll be of no help to him if you faint from thirst."

A pinched smile flashed across Nebetah's face; she took the cup, lifting it to her lips for a sip. "Thank you."

Nebetah stared into the dark liquid a moment, then set the cup down on the bench beside her. Immediately, her eyes and hands fell back to her son, and Satiah couldn't help but let her own gaze drift to him as well. Nebetah folded Meriti's hand between both of hers and brought it to her lips. His tiny fingers clutched reflexively around his mother's hands.

"When I was a child, my brother was plagued with poor health." Satiah was surprised by the sound of her own voice, perhaps even more than Nebetah, who turned her eyes up again. "His lungs. They were weak, all throughout his childhood. When we played, sometimes we would have to stop so he could catch his breath. I remember being so frightened the first time it happened. I thought it would never pass — watching him kneeling in the dirt, wheezing like an old man." Satiah averted her eyes again, then moved to sit beside Nebetah. "One day, he had a spell that didn't pass. It went on for hours, and the healers feared he would suffocate himself before the night was through. They sent riders all throughout the land, searching for herbs and remedies they thought might ease his pain…" Slowly, Satiah reached out a hand and rested it on Meriti's knee. His skin burned icy hot. "But my father was not content to wait for death to take his son. He stayed with my brother until the sun rose, holding him in his arms, chest to chest … teaching him how to breathe again. In the end, it was no herb or potion that saved my brother … It was love. The love only a parent can give their child."

When Satiah turned to Nebetah, the princess had descended into quiet, shivering tears again. Unexpectedly, she leaned her head against Satiah's shoulder. Satiah hesitated a moment before allowing herself to wrap the woman in a loose hug. As the princess sobbed, Satiah watched the way Nebetah held to her child's hand. She was reminded of the way her father had clutched to Metka all those years ago, his knuckles flashing white in desperation. Slowly, Satiah lifted her free hand and laid it over Nebetah's, enclosing Meriti's trembling fingers in a supportive embrace.

A moment passed, and as Nebetah's sobs dwindled to hitching breaths, she pulled away from Satiah, lifting her skirt to wipe her face. Sniffing, she forced a smile. "You should know that I don't blame your father for what happened," she said, looking back at Meriti. "He has been nothing but kind to us since his arrival, and he was so patient with Meriti. I've never seen my boy open up so quickly to a stranger before."

Satiah let herself feel the slightest flicker of relief at this. Her thoughts drifted again to her father, who was now locked away in his room like a criminal awaiting trial — and surely wallowing in guilt over the tragedy their inaction had caused. Had they just been a little quicker, a little braver, a little more open with their royal hosts, it was possible none of this would have happened.

Stricken, Satiah released Nebetah's hand, then quickly stood. "Let me get some water and a fresh cloth for his head," she whispered. The princess smiled and nodded, and Satiah turned back to the table where she'd been folding linens earlier. There, she took up a small bowl and filled it with water from an urn sitting on the floor nearby.

As she straightened to grab a rag, her heart was struck with a familiar jolting sensation. Her fingers faltered, causing the bowl to slip through them and clatter loudly to the ground. She clutched her chest, feeling her heart thumping in a pattern that had only ever echoed one thing — the summoning of her ka.

"Is everything alright?"

Satiah spun, seeing the princess looking at her with worried eyes. "Apologies," Satiah said, picking up the bowl and filling it with water again. She quickly grabbed a rag and soaked it in the water, then crossed the room again to hand the bowl to Nebetah. "Will you be alright if I leave for a moment? I have something I need to attend to."

Nebetah still looked concerned, but she simply nodded. At this, Satiah wheeled around, pushing her way out the infirmary doors into the hallway beyond. She jumped when she heard the scramble of feet nearby. Turning, she squinted into the shadows to see the tail end of a familiar white frock disappearing around the nearest corner.

Satiah closed the door and chased the flash of white around the corner. There, she stopped, listening to soft hitching sounds coming from the alcove of a window nearby. Her thrumming heart grew suddenly heavy, and she crept forward to peek into the alcove, seeing Mana crouched down with her knees drawn up to her chest.

"I'm s-sorry, Princess," Mana stammered. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop."

Satiah pursed her lips, then lowered herself down across from the girl. "It's alright, Mana," she whispered, reaching out to lay a hand on her knee. "But you really shouldn't be here right now. Where is your mother?"

Mana sniffed loudly. "She's d-down at K-Karnak, with the other mothers. Praying."

"You should be with her," Satiah said, trying to keep her voice free of reproach. "The Princess needs all the prayers she can get."

"It all just f-feels so … so useless," Mana gasped, lowering her face down into her arms. "Why can't we do anything?"

Satiah suddenly remembered the familiar tingle in her heart from earlier. Even for just that brief moment, it had felt like she'd been made whole again — like all her emptiness had been filled with a new purpose. But as she looked upon the weeping girl before her, all Satiah could feel now was grief.

Slowly, she shimmied forward and wrapped an arm around Mana's shoulder, pulling her close. Satiah hushed her, rubbing her arms to steady her wracking sobs. Eventually, Mana looked up, her green eyes swimming like drowned lily pads.

"Satiah," she whispered, "is Meriti going to die?"

Instantly, Satiah felt as if her heart had been run through with knives. Her mouth fell open, intending at first to give some words of comfort — some lie that might put Mana's mind at ease. But before she could speak, footsteps drew near, summoning her attention upward to see Shimon emerging from the darkness deeper in the hall.

He quickly found her eyes. "Princess," he panted, "come quickly."

Satiah released Mana and surged to her feet, her eyes instinctively flying over her shoulder to look out the window beside her. The sun was now no more than a weak red orb, sinking hurriedly toward the horizon.

"Stay here," she said to Mana, dipping away to follow Shimon back toward the infirmary. Before they even reached it, Nebetah's panicked cries reached Satiah's ears, and when they entered, the scene grew only more chaotic. Servants had swarmed the bed, where Meriti was currently seizing in violent fits. In the corner of the room, Nebetah was wailing uncontrollably, held back by Isis, whose eyes were squeezed shut and face turned away.

Satiah found herself frozen by fear momentarily, until she saw Shimon sweep in and break through the line of servants. "His organs are failing," he whispered. "Satiah — help me turn him on his side."

Blinking, Satiah rushed into an open spot and put her hands on Meriti's quivering body. His skin was now as cold as ice, and if his limbs hadn't been twitching wildly, Satiah would have thought death had already taken him. Working in time with Shimon, she turned the boy onto his side, watching in horror as the whites of his eyes flashed and a thin stream of spittle trickled from the corner of his mouth. Shimon released him and came around to stand beside Satiah. He knelt down and clutched Meriti's chin, helping to separate the boy's clenched jaws.

"Breathe, Meriti," he whispered. "Breathe."

Satiah struggled to hold the boy down, having to use more force than she would have ever thought necessary for such a small child. Her own teeth were gritted hard, the pain dulled only by the terror that infested her senses. Her vision grew to narrow pinpoints, the sounds of Nebetah's wails growing muffled in her ears. Fearing she might faint, Satiah forced herself to look away from the spasming body in her arms, turning her eyes instead to the open doorway.

Come back, she begged. Walk through the door. He will die if you don't. Come back, damn you. Come back. Please —

Stillness.

Meriti's rigid muscles grew slack beneath her fingers, his limbs falling limp to the bed. A quiet moment passed, in which Nebetah's voice dwindled to a whimper, until she saw Shimon back away from the bed, revealing her son's lifeless body.

Her aching cries again consumed the chamber, and she broke free of Isis's grasp to throw herself over Meriti. Satiah wrenched her eyes away from the sight, turning them to the still-empty doorway. Feeling the fingers of despair reaching for her, she lowered her head and swept out of the room. Sorrow strangled her throat as she walked deep into the shadows, until she was forced to stop and suck in air like an infant taking its first breath. Clutching at her chest, she leaned into the cool stone wall, the husk of her body too empty even for tears to flow.

Then, she felt a presence and heard footsteps, clattering through the passage at a sprinting pace. She turned slowly, just in time to see her husband emerging from the darkness like a star born into the night.

He stopped running and froze as he set his eyes on her, his entire body heaving and drenched in sweat. Without even saying a word, she could see the realization growing in his wide eyes. But in the end, she said nothing — simply shook her head, slowly, from side to side.

Despair took him, bringing him crashing to his hands and knees. Satiah watched his body quiver with ragged breaths, rippling from his core, up into his chest, and down through his trembling limbs. In the last flicker of evening light left lingering in the hallway, she saw the distinct shape of a clay vial pinned beneath his hand.

Behind her, the sounds of muffled weeping grew like a sickness again, and Satiah turned to see Nebetah being led out of the infirmary. Her breaths hissed to a stop as she set her eyes upon Atem. He lifted his gaze to meet hers, and again the pervading whispers of misery passed between them.

Nebetah rushed over to where he knelt, laying her hands on his shoulders. "Tefnak…?" she breathed.

Satiah saw the shine of tears in her husband's eyes just before he lowered his chin to his chest. He reached his hand up and pulled his cloak over his shoulder, revealing the glinting Millennium Ring hanging around his neck.

"No," Nebetah choked. "No, please, tell me it's not true. Tell me—"

She never found Atem's eyes again. He left them downturned as shame wracked him, turning his gasping breaths into quaking sobs. Nebetah joined him in tears, but it took her a long time to find the strength to embrace him — to hold onto this last thread that tethered her to the flesh and blood she once shared with him, but which, in a fleeting moment, were now gone.

By the time Mahad returned to the palace with the crown prince's body, the moon was already hanging high above the earth. Even as the priest rode slowly through the palace gate, Satiah kept her eyes turned up to Khonsu's nearly-full face. Beside her stood Atem and the Pharaoh, and when Mahad pulled his horse to a stop before them, Satiah stole a glance at father and son. There was no trace of sorrow, or any other emotion, on either man's face. In the cold light of the moon, Satiah thought they could have been tomb paintings. Soon, Mahad dismounted his horse and moved to its hindquarters, where he slowly removed the limp body slung over the back of his saddle. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Atem lower his eyes at this, his jaws clenching.

Mahad carried the crown prince forward and laid him out on a stretcher that had been set on the ground nearby. Four servants then stepped forward and picked it up, carrying it toward the palace proper. The Pharaoh stepped forward, causing them to stop. He laid his hand on his son's chest, where his white tunic was splashed with stains of blood. After a moment, the Pharaoh stepped back and nodded at the servants, who set off again.

Mahad stepped forward and bowed down to one knee. Aknamkanon said nothing, even as the priest rose and looked his king in the eyes. Eventually, the Pharaoh reached out and placed one hand on Mahad's shoulder, giving it a light, almost grateful squeeze. When Aknamkanon took his hand away, Mahad moved to stand before Atem. Satiah could see Atem struggling to meet his friend's eyes — the only other ones which had seen what happened in the mortuary temple.

"Meriti?" Mahad whispered.

Atem lowered his head further, then shook it once. Immediately, Mahad surged forward and caught the prince in a tight embrace. Atem inhaled sharply before wrapping his arms around his friend in return.

Fearing she would be witness to more of her husband's tears, Satiah spun and receded back into the shadow of the palace. She walked without purpose for a while, simply glancing out of open windows to find Khonsu still beaming relentlessly down on her. Eventually, she found herself back in the living quarters, standing before the door to her father's room. Two soldiers had been posted outside, but they practically ignored Satiah as she approached. Like everyone she had passed, from the lowest servant to highest priests, their heads were hung in mourning for their prince.

Satiah took a deep breath and pushed her way into the room, finding it, too, bathed in moonlight. At first, she could not find her father amongst the creeping shadows, but as she moved further into the room, she caught sight of a quivering form sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed. Satiah was hesitant to approach at first, until a silver glint caught her eye — a knife was clasped tightly in her father's hands.

Panicked, Satiah swept forward and knelt by his side, thrusting her hand to cover the blade of the knife. He jolted and turned his face up to meet hers, looking as if he'd just been woken from a dream.

"What are you doing?" Satiah hissed.

His face morphed from shock to anger, and he tightened his grip on the handle of the knife. "Leave me be—"

"Two lives have already been stolen this day—"

"This is my fault, Sati," he choked. "It's all my fault."

Satiah gritted her teeth and finally wrested the knife away from him, dropping it to the ground behind her. "Do not let the royals hear you say such things," she spat. "You are not to blame for what happened. You were deceived, just like I was — just like they were. The only one at fault currently lies at the bottom of the Nile."

Upon hearing this, the lines of guilt in his face softened a bit.

"You need to gather yourself, Father," Satiah went on. "The Guardians will want to speak with you again. I believe some of them are on your side, but others are still angry. Their king is in mourning, and if we're not careful, they will convince him to have you locked in chains — or worse."

Satiah could see the wheels of rational thought returning to him. He hung his head a moment, then pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Both of them jumped at the sound of harsh rapping on the door.

"Metjen," came a muffled but familiar voice — Aknadin. "You have been summoned to the throne room."

Satiah hissed a curse — the Guardians had come much sooner than she expected. She could only pray that she'd absolved her father of enough guilt for him to stand this trial. She rose, reaching her hands out to help him to his feet. Together, they walked to the door, where Satiah threw it open to meet Aknadin's glinting stare. He stood there not but a moment before turning away and starting down the hall toward the throne room. Satiah followed, leading her father on, both of them trailed closely by the guards who'd been posted outside the door.

As they entered the immense chamber, they were welcomed by discerning stares from the rest of the Sacred Guardians, who stood clustered at the foot of the dais. On his throne sat the Pharaoh, whose gaze was long — unfocused. Beside him, Atem stood rigid, his head downturned. He had since removed the Millennium Ring from his neck, but where it was now, Satiah could only guess.

"My king," Aknadin announced, "we have heard the account from the prince and Mahad. The would-be thief Bakura has been vanquished, but at great cost to the country — and to your family. We gather here to decide the fate of the man responsible for this atrocity." Aknadin turned his golden eye to Satiah's father, who took a deep breath to steady himself. "Since this man no longer has ka to offer up for his sins … I propose we execute him. This will balance the scales of death, but only just."

Satiah stiffened. She opened her mouth to protest, but she was surprised when Shimon spoke first.

"Guardian Aknadin, isn't that a bit excessive?" he said, his brow lowered in consternation. "Metjen has not knowingly committed any crime."

"Crime or not, his actions — or rather, lack of action — caused the demise of an entire royal lineage," Aknadin said.

"You speak of scales," Karim interjected, "but I see no justice in this path. To kill this man would only stain our own ka."

"Toss him in the dungeon, then," Seto spat. "Let the guilt rot him away to an early grave."

Satiah clenched her fists. Beside her, she could feel her father sinking further into his shame.

Isis pushed into the circle. "I will not be party to the theft of an innocent man's future."

"And what about the crown prince's future?" Aknadin said. "What about his son's—?

"Enough!"

The king surged out of his throne, thrusting his hand out to his court.

"I will hear no more talk of death and justice," he said. "My son may be gone, but the wretched thief who stole him from me is no more. With that, I consider the scales balanced." He turned his dark eyes down to Satiah's father. "Metjen — the pain in my heart tells me to banish you from my kingdom. But for the sake of Satiah, who is now my daughter as much as yours, I will not subject you to such a fate. Go — you are a free man, so long as you leave my palace by morning."

Aknadin stepped forward. "But, my king—"

"And you, Aknadin," the Pharaoh said, his voice still strong and pointed. "Your bloodlust dishonors the memory of my son. I strove to teach Tefnak mercy and forgiveness, and you seek to undermine those virtues with your wicked desire for vengeance."

Aknadin looked wounded at this.

"You are to leave for Memphis as soon as the dead are buried," the Pharaoh went on. "And I shall expect you to take up that duty with a much more temperate hand."

The Guardian gritted his teeth and lowered his head. "As you wish, my king."

Suddenly, fatigue gripped the Pharaoh. He fell back into his throne, then waved his hand dismissively to his court. "Go now — all of you," he said weakly. "My son and I wish to grieve our fallen kin in peace."