Akhenaten

Sand. It was everywhere, burning, stinging, unfamiliar. One more false move, and the razor-sharp steel of a spear at the edge of your vision promised the end. Soldiers in white aprons, their skin smelling of sun and sweat, roughly led you through the sun-glistening gates.

Inside, the air trembled with heat and the scent of cedar. And there he sat. The young pharaoh, with hair as dark as the Nile and a calm, all-seeing gaze.

His eyebrows shot up when he saw you.

"What's this?" His voice, sharp and full of contempt, cut through the air. "Do you even have any brains left in your skull to bring this garbage to me?"

He looked at your strange clothes with disgust.

"Your rags are nothing but nauseating." He slowly rose from the throne, and his shadow fell over you. "I have no mercy for spies. So maybe you should start making excuses? Or are you waiting for your blood to become my ink for the next decree?"