Khenti’s eyes find mine over Nefertari’s shoulder, and something shifts in his expression. A flicker of the boy who once promised to love me despite everything.
"Persenet," he breathes with a smile, extracting himself from Nefertari's proximity with what seems like reluctance.
I force my feet to move, moving towards him and putting on a smile.
Khenti’s hand closes around my wrist and pulls me toward a shadowed alcove between two massive pillars. The darkness swallows us, and suddenly his hands are framing my face, trembling like papyrus reeds in a storm.
"My dear," he whispers. "How I've missed you."
The words should warm me, they usually do. Instead, they scrape against something raw and wounded in my chest.
"Have you?" I search his face for the devotion I remember.
His hands fall from my cheeks, and he steps back. The small distance feels like the breadth of the Nile itself.
"The campaign was difficult, Enet. My father… He has certain expectations now that I'm being considered for a commander. There were responsibilities, duties that consumed every waking hour."
Khenti reaches for me again, fingers gently brushing my arm. "I thought of you constantly. Every night before I slept, I…"
"And yet you couldn't find time to write?" The accusation slips out sharper than I intended. "One letter in three months. I read it so many times that the papyrus nearly crumbled in my hands."
"I know." His voice softens with genuine remorse. "I know, and I'm sorry. The guilt ate at me, but each day bled into the next, and suddenly weeks had passed. Forgive me, beloved. I should have done better."
The apology loosens something tight in my chest, but another thorn remains.
"And Nefertari?" I force myself to meet his eyes. "The way you looked at her just now, the way she touched you, as if she had every right to."
"Enet." He almost laughs, shaking his head. "You can't be serious. The three of us grew up together. Her greeting was nothing more than—"
"She hates me, Khenti. Whatever sisterly affection existed died years ago."
I hate how desperate I sound, how much I need him to understand what’s hurting me. But I can’t help myself.
"Listen, tomorrow changes everything.” His thumbs trace circles on my shoulders. “At the celebration in your stepfather's house, he’ll announce the engagement. And no one will question where my heart lies."
His certainty wraps around me like a warm cloak. I want to believe him. I need to.
"Tomorrow…" I echo, letting myself lean into his touch. "Despite everything I am?"
"Despite nothing."
His gaze intensifies, dropping to my lips as he leans in, then rising to my temple where—
Khenti stops mid-breath, his entire body going rigid as his eyes fix on my head. The blood drains from my face before he even speaks. "Your hair."
My hand flies up, finding the treacherous strand that has escaped my wig's careful confines—honey-gold in the shadowed light, damning as a confession.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, tucking it back with the practiced speed of years' humiliation, my cheeks burning hotter than the desert sand at midday. "The morning was rushed, I didn't have time to properly—"
"It's so bright," he says quietly, and for a second I get a glimpse of admiration in his voice. "Even in the shadows, it catches light like..."
The word hangs between us, heavy as the granite above our heads. Foreign. Wrong. No one ever lets me forget about it.
The next second his fingers catch mine, gentle but insistent. He fixes the wig himself, hiding my shame properly. "There. No one saw."
I couldn’t help but wonder if it was done out of worry? Or was Khenti worried I would cost him reputation?
Even my real father didn't wait nine months. Couldn't be bothered to see if my mother would give him a son worth claiming. Just left his mark and disappeared like morning mist.
Khenti says nothing, something unreadable darkening his features. Not the disgust I'm used to from others, but something worse. Resignation, perhaps. Or a decision already made.
"The festival," he says suddenly, brightness forced into his tone. "Before tomorrow's celebration, before everything becomes formal and public—let me take you. Just the two of us, like before."
The offer feels like penance. I take it anyway.
"I'd like that," I manage, and his smile returns, almost reaching his eyes.
* * *
The streets of Thebes pulse with life as we make our way toward the festival grounds near the great temple of Karnak. Khenti's hand holds mine, his grip firm now, present.
Almost normal.
"Look, honey cakes," he says, steering me toward a vendor whose wares glisten with golden sweetness. "Your favorite."
The words land wrong. Dates stuffed with almonds are my favorite. Honey cakes are Nefertari's. But I don't correct him. Three months is a long time. Memories blur.
He buys three cakes, pressing one into my hand with that almost-smile. I bite into it, watching him scan the crowd over my shoulder. "What are you looking for?"
"Hmm?" His attention snaps back to me. "Nothing. Just... taking in the celebrations. The priests say this year's festival will be the grandest yet."
We walk further, and he points out musicians, buys me a lotus flower, tucks it behind my ear with fingers that linger. Attentive. Trying.
Yet every few moments, his gaze drifts. Searching the crowd for something. Someone.
"My father contributed three bulls for sacrifice," he offers into another silence. "He's been generous this year. Cultivating favor with the temples."
"Your father," I repeat slowly. "You mention him often now."
"He's secured my position." Still watching the crowd. "General Sahety has no sons. If I prove myself worthy, I could command the entire eastern garrison within two years."
"That's wonderful." I squeeze his hand, trying to anchor him here, with me. "You've worked so hard for this."
"Yes." His response comes a beat too late. "There are expectations, of course. Standards to maintain."
Before I can ask what standards, the crowd surges as the parade begins. Drums thunder through the streets, sistras rattle their metallic songs, and priests in elaborate masks begin their sacred dance.
Bodies press close, hot and suffocating. Khenti's hand tightens on mine, then slips.
"Khenti!" I call, but my voice drowns in the sea of celebration. The human current spins me backward, forward, searching desperately for his face in the chaos. "Khenti!"
The crowd spits me out into a side alley, gasping and disoriented. I lean against a wall, trying to catch my breath, when rough hands grab my arms.
"Well, well. Look what the gods have delivered."
Three men surround me, their breath sour with cheap beer and their eyes glassy with cruel amusement. Merchants, by their clothes, though the festival has stripped them of any pretense of civility.
"Pretty little mongrel, aren't you?" The largest one circles me like a hyena, his fingers already reaching for my wig. "Playing at being Egyptian with your fancy hair and clean clothes."
"Please," I try to pull away, but they've backed me against the wall. "I'm the High Priest's—"
"The High Priest's wife's bastard," another one laughs, his hands joining his friend's, tugging at my wig. "Everyone knows about you. The Greek's whore-daughter who hides her shame under black hair that isn't hers."
Their fingers catch in the wig's edges, pulling hard enough to bring tears to my eyes.
"Let's see if your hair is really as golden as the rumors say.”