Lian

The sun in Memphis wasn't just a luminary—it was a red-hot hammer, driving dust into the pores of his skin. Lian knelt, feeling the sharp stones digging into his skin, and tried not to look at his father. He kept his eyes down, clutching a bag of silver—the price for which he had just erased his son from his life.

When the heavy palace gates clanged shut behind him, Lian expected to find a dungeon. But instead, he was overwhelmed by beauty.

The pharaoh's palace resembled a song frozen in stone. Enormous columns, painted in azure and gold, soared into the sky like the stems of gigantic lotuses. The white limestone walls dazzled the eye, reflecting the midday heat, and the cool shadows in the depths of the halls beckoned like a promise of oblivion. The air here was different—heavy with the scent of myrrh, lotuses, and something sweet, almost intoxicating, emanating from the blooming gardens.

The garden surrounding the palace seemed torn from the very heart of the oasis. It was a labyrinth of living wonders: slender date palms bowed their crowns over artificial canals lazily filled with water brought from the Nile. Water lilies bloomed everywhere, and exotic birds hid in the shade of dense papyrus thickets, their cries a strange, haunting music. The noise of the city was absent here—only the measured murmur of fountains and the rustle of fans used by slaves to fan the nobles relaxing in the pavilions.

Liana was led along mosaic-paved paths, and every step echoed in his chest with a dull dread. He was a stranger here, a "gift," whose fate now belonged to a man whose name they feared to speak aloud.

"Walk straighter," the overseer hissed, nudging him in the back. "The harem doesn't like slouches. Today you'll see His Majesty, and if you stumble even once, your life will end before the sun sets."