Dawn broke on Satiah like a spear driven into prey, but even as her tired eyes were greeted by harsh daylight, her nightmares lingered on.
She blinked and pushed herself to a sitting position on the stone bench beneath her, casting her face in the shadow of a palm tree overhead. It took her several lethargic moments to even recognize her surroundings: After spending nearly the entire night by Jahar's bedside in the prison cellar, she'd eventually stolen away to a quiet corner of the villa courtyard to sleep off her exhaustion for a few hours.
In truth, she had considered sleeping in the cells at first rather than leaving Jahar's side, but the prison had been crowded all night by a regular rotation of priests and nosy Guardians, and their hovering presence had left her feeling more anxious than ever. Just before she'd left, Seto had come down for his shift, and he'd regarded her with utter disdain the entire time she'd spent tending to her former mentor. She'd tried to ignore his judging eyes, but between the anger and the shame and the fatigue, it simply became too much to bear.
Predictably, Jahar had not woken even once through the night, and though Satiah had told the prison staff to fetch her immediately should his condition change, she was not surprised when no news came. Jahar's ba had been utterly decimated in his battle against the God, and recovering from such a blow would have been a difficult task even for a young and resilient duelist. At first, she'd accepted the fact that it would be some time before he regained his strength, but as the hours wore on, Satiah began to worry that he might never wake up at all.
The thought soon brought tears welling back into her already raw eyes, and anger quickly boiled up along with them. Satiah knew this anger should have been meant for her former mentor, whose unbidden vengeance had uprooted the seeds of peace she'd only just begun to sow. But as hot tears streamed down her face, only one memory flashed itself before Satiah's eyes: That of her husband, his body wrapped in the wicked power of his Pendant — and the ruthlessness with which he gave the order to kill a defenseless man. She still remembered how his eyes had flickered with sadistic pleasure as he awaited the God's final blow — as if nothing but the utter destruction of his enemy would satisfy him.
Fearing this image might be burned forever in her mind, Satiah forced herself to open her eyes and suck in a deep breath, her lungs hitching audibly with sobs. As she lifted her head to the shine of the sun, she found her gaze drawn toward a figure standing in the shadow of a nearby tree. Instantly, her sobs hissed to a stop as she met eyes with Mahad. His serious face was painted with worry, and within moments he was sweeping through the shady grove to where she sat.
"My queen," he whispered, drawing to a stop before her, "is everything alright?"
Frantically, Satiah rubbed her eyes and steadied her quivering breaths. "I'm fine," she replied.
"I crossed paths with your handmaiden on my way here," Mahad went on, his voice low and cautious. "She was asking after you." He hesitated. "Have you been here all night?"'
Satiah lowered her head shamefully, unable to muster a reply.
Mahad stood silent for a long time, and Satiah could feel his eyes burning down through the top of her head. "You should return to the residence, my queen," he said. "The Pharaoh is surely worried about you."
Another flicker of anger lashed in her stomach, burning away what was left of her tears. She stole a scornful glance at the Guardian, but she saw in his warm eyes that his concern was genuine — untainted by the obsequiousness that often followed his colleagues.
Slowly, she lifted her head back up. "Tell me, Mahad," she said. "How long have you known the king?"
He looked taken aback for a moment, his brow rising. "Almost my whole life."
"And in all those years, have you ever seen such wrath within him?"
He breathed deep. "No."
Satiah smoothed her lips together, tasting the salt of new tears as they rolled down her cheeks. "I thought I knew him," she hissed thinly. "I thought I had seen his heart—"
A sob choked out the last of her words, and she turned her head down to let her tears fall into the hot earth. With all the air gone from her lungs, her shoulders quivered silently, hands curling into fists on her knees.
Suddenly, Mahad turned and lowered himself down onto the bench beside her. He lifted one arm to fold her into a stiff embrace, and like a child, Satiah fell into him, smothering her tears into his white tunic.
"What you have seen is the truth," he said urgently, "for I have known it as well." His low voice resonated through Satiah while tears continued to seize her. "I have watched him for many years. I have seen him grow and change. I have seen the people he has touched, and all the souls he has taken into his heart."
Slowly, Satiah felt her sobs begin to dwindle, but she kept her face tight against Mahad's shoulder.
"They weigh on him," he continued. "So many legacies live through him now. He exists for them — sometimes in spite of them." He paused, and in the cool silence Satiah lifted her head to look into his eyes. "But when he is with you, he is only himself."
Satiah's anger turned suddenly inward, burning hot in her core and threatening to stir up new, shameful tears. But just then, another flash of movement caught her eye, and she turned to see Seto emerging from the prison cellar nearby. He stopped, setting his patronizing gaze on them. Mahad quickly took note of his colleague's presence as well. Clearing his throat, he released Satiah and stood, just as Seto began making his way over toward them.
Seto addressed Mahad as he arrived. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't show for your shift."
"Apologies, brother," Mahad replied. "I'll be along shortly." He then turned to Satiah. "My queen, would you like Seto to escort you back to the residence?"
Satiah gritted her teeth and flicked her eyes toward Seto, who was looking perturbed at being volunteered for such a task. "I need no escort," she snapped, standing with a huff. "Thank you, and good day to you both."
With that, Satiah spun and dipped out of the grove, stalking toward the sun, in the hopes that Ra's light would dry her tears.
A bittersweet melody swelled within depths of the God's shrine, but the notes died quickly in the still air, weighing almost as heavy as Atem's heart. Across the chamber, Obelisk's stone tablet stood tall, flanked on either side by roaring braziers. But Atem's eyes had long since left the God's stony vessel, his gaze fallen instead to the floor before him, where his mother's ka was playing a sorrowful lament on her silver harp.
The Heavenly Muse kept a serene smile on her face even as the notes she thrummed told a mournful story. Atem, sitting on the stairs just inside the shrine, hung his head low to watch her fingers moving deftly across the silky strings. The setting sun trickled down from the stairway above, casting his shadow over the spirit like a diffuse bruise. But she played on, smiling blithely as if she knew nothing of the guilt that thrashed in Atem's soul.
After a long day of tending to his kingly duties, he'd told himself he had come to Obelisk's shrine to be alone with his thoughts. But not more than a single solitary moment had passed before he'd summoned his mother's ka to keep him company. Even though he had been surrounded by people all day, he'd felt utterly alone since the moment he awoke to an empty bed that morning.
In truth, Atem had wanted nothing more than to seek out his wife, but by the time the sun began its descent in the west, he hadn't managed to build up the courage to do it. He feared what he'd see when he looked into her eyes — feared they would be filled with the same horror and despair as when she'd thrown herself at his feet in the shadow of the temple. His heart broke with shame, knowing he had no one to blame but himself for causing her such pain.
Suddenly, the slow echo of footsteps came from above. The Muse's song cut to a halting stop as Atem stood and turned, his eyes falling upon Metjen standing on the landing above him. Metjen gave a sober smile and sank down a few more steps, leaving only three or four more between them.
"Such a haunting melody," Metjen said, flicking his eyes over Atem's shoulder. "You'd almost think someone had gone to meet Anubis."
Atem lowered his head, then half-turned to the spirit behind him, waving a hand to disperse it back from whence it came. When he looked back, Metjen was lowering himself to the stairs, resting his elbows on his knees and linking his hands together between them. His eyes had since risen from the floor, and he was now staring through the darkness at Obelisk's tablet.
"It's a wonder how something so brittle as stone can contain such might," Metjen said. "Do you think it resents its fate? To have been captured by its own disciples?"
Atem, too, trailed his gaze to the slab, remembering how raw and fierce it had felt to invoke the Sword of Horus. "I don't know," he said.
Metjen scoffed a laugh. "I know I should be honored there seem to be so many people willing to take up my mantle," he said. "Still… Jahar was a fool to tempt a god's fury."
Atem looked back, his eyes widening in surprise.
"If only I'd known what I would set in motion when I stood against your father." Metjen heaved a deep sigh. "As a parent, you tell yourself the only thing you want for your children is for them to be happy. But if that were the case, I never would have done what I did. I should have known Sati was only ever content to seek her own happiness." Metjen's voice grew wistful as he spoke of his only daughter — the last of his kin. "Despite everything… I think she has found it in you."
Atem felt his heart fluttering wild against his ribcage. Another memory of Satiah's face flashed before his eyes, but there was no fear in it this time — only the scintillating glow of joy.
Metjen blinked, his eyes catching the shine of the sinking sun. "When I see the way you make her smile, I remember what that feeling was like." His words wavered now, but he swallowed hard to steady himself. "There's nothing else in this world that can compare to it — that companionship. That bond. Once you have known a love like that, you'll never be the same without it."
Just then, Metjen stood and laid a hand heavy to Atem's shoulder, sending uncanny waves of cold and warmth trickling down his spine. Though the shimmer of Metjen's tears had grown thicker, he refused to let them fall.
"Don't lose her, Atem," he said, forsaking all formality in favor of paternal sincerity. "I promise you — there is no stone on this earth that can hold her."
Without pause, Metjen turned and receded up the stairs, leaving Atem in deep and somatic solitude again.
When Satiah finally returned to the residence at the edge of night, she couldn't decide whether or not she was relieved to find it empty.
The waning moon cast the bedchamber in new light, drawing stark shadows where there was once a familiar silver glow. As she made her way through the room, she traced her fingers lightly over the weathered edge of the table and stopped by the side of the bed, looking down into her shadow to see one fresh pillow — and one with a heavy indentation left in it.
Looking at the dissonant sight caused her earlier pang of relief to fall into rue. She turned in a circle, then took several long paces toward the window, angling her gaze up to the crescent moon. Her father used to say that when the moon was in its first quarter, Khonsu was smiling; when it was in its last, he was frowning — preparing for the moment when he would turn his back on the earth and leave it in darkness.
Satiah reached a hand out to steady herself against the window frame, leaning until her head was resting on the warped wood. She stared at the moon for many long moments, barely blinking — fearing that if she looked away — even for a moment — Khonsu might turn his back forever.
She let her eyes fall closed only at the sound of the door of the residence opening. She kept them closed, even as footsteps crept slowly up the stairs — even as a deep breath stole the chilled air from the room, replacing it with familiar warmth. Eventually, she turned her head, fluttering her eyes open, but kept her husband only in the fringes of her vision — watching as the moonlight illuminated the white of his shendyt, deepened the blue of his sash, caught the glimmer of his gold belt. She could feel him pulling for her gaze — begging, pleading for her to look at him. But she did not.
Then, suddenly, he brought himself to her eyes.
He fell to his knees before her, his face upturned and filled with a thousand apologies. He stayed there for a long time, sunk down against his heels, hands hanging palm-up on his thighs — violet gaze building like a wave ready to crash upon her.
And crash, he did.
Slowly, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead into her waist and drawing in a long, quivering breath. Satiah stood staggered, her heart thrashing, trying to pretend she was indifferent to his contrition, when truly — she treasured it.
He turned and tucked his cheek against her, lifting one hand to press flat-palmed into her middle and wrapping the other around the small of her back. Another breath seized him, rushing in and out from between his parted lips like hot wind in a sandstorm.
"Forgive me," he whispered — but the words braided together more like a question, as if he'd already prepared himself for every other reality.
Satiah lifted her own hands, resting one on his shoulder and the other on the crown of his head. She threaded her fingers into the lush blackness of his hair, holding him loosely while remorse smoldered through him.
When at last he pulled away, she layered her hands at the nape of his neck and turned his face back up to hers. She searched the ebbing tide of his eyes for a long time before lowering her gaze to his chest, where the Millennium Pendant glinted harshly in the starlight. Slowly, she sank her hand down to cradle the heavy gold, weighing it in her palm.
"So many souls," she whispered. His chin tipped down, his brow lowering in solemn contemplation. Then, Satiah released the Pendant and turned her hand over, grazing her fingertips against his chest. "I need to know if there is still room enough for me."
Just then, he lifted his own hand and folded it over hers, pressing her palm tight to the wild beating of his heart. Warmth washed over her as he lifted his eyes again. There was suddenly new life within them — no longer bereft from guilt.
"This—" He clutched her hand tight, his heart beating faster. "—belongs to you."
Then, slowly, he rose up high on his knees, climbing his free hand until he was cradling her head, bringing her in for a worshipful kiss. He was firm, but gentle — every touch of his lips, every caress of his fingers a question. Satiah cherished the new sensations, knowing this was a man who was ready to fight now — and not just against things — the dark, the anger, the hate.
But for something.
As daylight rose over Memphis, it was Satiah who now awoke to an empty bed. Had her heart still been heavy, she might have allowed herself to wallow in self-pity for a while, but a night of renewed affections and restful sleep had left her spirit feeling infinitely lightened. Swiftly, she rose and dressed herself, deciding she would take it upon herself to seek the warmth that had been missing from her bed since before dawn.
With the sun at her back, she trudged the well-worn path up the hill to the Temple of Sekhmet, feeling instinct calling her to the pavilion. Sure enough, as she came to the edge of it, she peered around a column to see her husband sitting at the far end of the table. He took a steep sip of tea while reading from a long papyrus stretched out in front of him, and Satiah felt an unbidden smile come to her lips as she watched his eyes dancing across the page. She would have been content to watch him for hours, had she not felt such a strong desire to be nearer to his radiance. So, she stepped out from behind the pillar and strode under the canopy of linens. Atem was quick to look up from his work, and his face, too, broke with a peaceful smile — though he said nothing as she drew near.
Satiah lowered herself into the seat beside him, and almost instantly, a servant girl came out from the shadows with a cup and pitcher in hand. She curtseyed, then set the cup down and filled it with tea from the carafe before receding back to the edge of the pavilion to wait with her fellow servants. Satiah squared herself to the table, seeing out of the corner of her eye that Atem had resumed his reading of the papyrus in front of him — a ledger of grain stocks across the region.
Sighing, Satiah rested her arms on the table, then took her cup and brought it to her lips. As she sipped, she felt a hand falling over where her other one still rested on the surface of the table before her. She quickly lowered her cup, nearly spilling the hot liquid into her lap as she turned to cast her husband a sidelong glance. He didn't look at her until he'd reached the end of the line he was reading, but when he did, his eyes had a dreamy and knowing glimmer to them. He squeezed her hand, and she felt a slight blush coming to her cheeks as she recalled the sweet intimacies they had rekindled the night before.
Her blush only deepened when suddenly a new presence entered the pavilion, disturbing their blissful silence. Satiah withdrew her hand to her lap and turned to see Seto striding down the length of the table, looking tenacious as ever. Atem took a deep breath and lowered the papyrus back to the table, looking up to greet the Guardian.
Seto gave a brief bow of his head as he came to stand before his king. "Pharaoh," he said, "I'm sorry to disturb you. I was just on my way to serve my shift guarding the prisoner."
Satiah fought hard to keep her teeth from grinding audibly, but she was surprised to see Atem looking a bit impatient as well. He gave Seto an expectant stare, waiting for him to pose an actual question.
Seto cleared his throat and continued. "I must once again implore you to consider my earlier request…" He trailed off, flicking his eyes to Satiah briefly. "To extract and seal the criminal's ka."
Atem leaned back in his chair. "I thought I made myself clear on this matter," he said — to Satiah's surprise once again.
Seto drew himself up defensively. "My king — this man has already proven himself extremely hostile," he declared. "If he should ever awaken, he could turn violent once again—"
"When Jahar awakens," Atem interrupted, "we will need him to cooperate with us so that we can properly treat with the rest of his followers. If we were to take his ka, we would jeopardize any hope of securing their loyalty."
"But, Pharaoh—"
Atem exhaled sharply. "I grow tired of having my judgment questioned at every juncture," he said loudly, causing even Satiah to sit up straighter. "Jahar's ka will not be touched, and I will hear no more of it. Am I understood?"
Seto did not reply at first, and Satiah felt a satisfying surge of vindication to watch him stewing uncomfortably for a while. But before he could acquiesce to his king's decree, the silence was once again broken by more footsteps. Satiah turned to see a guardsman trotting out onto the pavilion, huffing with labored breaths as he came to kneel before them.
"My queen," the guard wheezed. He looked up at her, and instantly, Satiah's gut to twisted into a knot. "The prisoner has awoken."
...
The rushed journey back to the villa passed in a blur. Satiah barely even noticed the fact that Atem and Seto were trailing after her, both of them still smoldering from their earlier disagreement. It wasn't until they'd reached the entrance to the prison cellar that Satiah finally stopped and turned to face them, her wide eyes darting from Seto to settle squarely on her husband. He stepped forward to lay a hand on her shoulder.
"Take as long as you need," he said, quiet enough so Seto was unlikely to hear. "I'll be just outside."
Satiah gave him a gallant nod, then turned back to the darkened stairway. Slowly, she descended into the shadows, her eyes straining to adjust to the dimly lit halls beneath the surface. She passed two rows of cells before turning the corner to the last cellblock, where Jahar was being held. At the end of the hall, Mahad was standing with his back turned to Satiah. He looked behind at the sound of her footsteps, offering a solemn smile as she came within reach. With a respectful dip of his head, he stepped forward and unlocked Jahar's cell, then turned and swept out of the prison to give her some privacy.
With a deep breath, Satiah strode headlong into the cell, squinting through the darkness to where a crumpled shadow lay on a low cot along the wall. At her presence, the shadow stirred, and Jahar's face was soon illuminated by the weak torchlight — gaunt and white as a ghost.
"Sati?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. "That you?"
Satiah bit back tears and swept forward, sinking to her knees beside the cot and taking his hand in hers. It was cold and trembling, but he gripped her fingers fiercely as he struggled to sit up.
"Don't," she said, pressing on his shoulder with her free hand. "Save your strength."
He scoffed. "Save it for whom?" he grunted. "I'm not expecting many other visitors, if that's what you mean."
Satiah choked out a laugh, her nose wrinkling to keep her tears at bay.
Jahar smiled, and the lines in his face grew even deeper. He clutched her hand, bringing it to his heart. "I still have my ka," he said, half a statement, half a question.
Satiah nodded.
"I suppose the Pharaoh wished to wait until I was conscious before harvesting my soul," he muttered with venom.
Satiah gave a quick shake of her head. "He intends to let you keep it."
Jahar furrowed his bare brow, turning to stare deeply into her eyes. "Oh?" he said incredulously. "And what does he want in return for such clemency?"
Still fighting the sting of tears, Satiah gripped lightly to the front of his robe. "Peace," she said.
Jahar looked away, pulling in a ragged breath that swelled his hollow chest. "It seems your royal husband is full of surprises."
"Please, Jahar…" Satiah hissed, her voice thinned by encroaching tears. "No more fighting. No more bloodshed."
He turned back, his eyes glinting like scarabs in the firelight. "Begging does not suit you, Sati," he said. "And neither do these tears." He reached out and brushed a rough thumb beneath her eye, swiping away the wetness before it could fall. "Do not weep for me, child," he said firmly. "I fought, and I lost. I feel no shame — nor do I need you to feel it for me." When he took his hand away, he folded it over where hers still rested on his chest, cradling it close to him. "I taught you to follow strength. Only strength. It is no longer my place to tell you where to seek it."
Satiah swallowed down her sorrow, but her heart still ached for her former mentor. She could see his pride ebbing with each passing moment, as if he would have preferred death to this reality.
He averted his gaze to watch the torch flickering on the wall above. "Did the gods truly speak to him?"
Satiah waited until he found her eyes again, then gave one firm nod.
Another rough sigh gripped him. "Then I suppose that makes me the heretic," he said, exhaling a stuttering chuckle. Satiah forced herself to laugh with him, her tears finally winnowing. Slowly, he took her hand away from his heart, lifting it to his lips to kiss her fingers. "He may be king by blood," Jahar said. "But it was the gods' will who made you his queen. Never let him forget that."