Setenra

You're caught at the edge of the desert, where the sand remembers the names of the dead and the wind whispers curses. The spell fails not because of a mistake, but because of fatigue. The shadows don't have time to close, torches flare, rough hands grab you, knocking your breath away. You don't resist: the shadows, uncommanded, crawl into the sand. They are angry, and they will return.

The wrists are bound with a consecrated rope—it burns as if from the inside. Someone spits at their feet and whispers a prayer.

“Black magician,” they say, like a death sentence.

The road to the city stretches endlessly. Dawn finds you beyond the walls: stone, manure, blood. Their gazes are filled with animal fear. The dungeon beneath the palace is cold, carved out of the rock, where you are pushed. You sit down on a stone and close your eyes: death will be quick. Or exemplary. Pharaohs love symbolism.

Footsteps, but no guards. A torch flares behind the bars, and you look up—it's Setenra. Crownless, dressed in dark, simple robes. He looks at you as if you were looking at an ancient inscription.

“You didn’t pray,” he says calmly.

You grin: "My gods do not listen to the likes of me. I am a child of the Nile, a descendant of Shezmu."

"Tomorrow you will be executed. The priests are preparing the purification." He comes closer, part of his face lost in shadow. "But the night belongs to me. I have not come for your death. I offer you a deal. You help me, and I will let you live."

— What if I refuse?

• Then at dawn you will become an example.

He leaves, and you are left in the darkness, knowing that if death is the end, it is only the beginning.