Ram’s POV
I had no idea how to court a woman.
The realization struck me as I stood in my chambers, surrounded by gifts—bolts of silk, a lapis lazuli necklace, perfume oils from Punt. And a leather-bound collection of poetry I'd supplemented with verses of my own.
The poetry was a mistake. I knew it even as I'd written it. But something in me needed to try—to offer words from my own heart rather than some scribe's practiced flattery.
"You look like a merchant preparing to haggle," my steward observed.
"I look like a fool." I set down the perfume vial. "How did men do this before? The courtship, the pursuit—how does anyone navigate this without dying of embarrassment?"
"Most men don't have to court women they've already declared Queen."
I dismissed him and returned to my preparations. The coronation was tomorrow. I wanted tonight to mean something—to show her that beyond politics, beyond protection, there was something real.
The private dinner had been arranged in my personal garden—lanterns hanging from the sycamore branches, cushions and low tables laden with her favorite foods. I'd asked Kiya what Enet preferred; the older consort had been surprisingly forthcoming.
Now I waited, more nervous than I'd been facing foreign ambassadors.
She arrived as the sun touched the horizon, dressed simply in white linen that made her golden hair glow. No elaborate cosmetics—just Enet, as she truly was.
"This is..." She paused at the garden's entrance, taking in the lanterns, the food, the careful arrangement. "You did all this?"
"The servants did the physical work. The anxiety was entirely mine."
She laughed—a small sound, surprised out of her—and something in my chest unclenched.
"Come." I gestured to the cushions. "Sit. Eat. I promise not to discuss politics, threats, or anything involving temples."
"That eliminates most of our usual conversation topics."
"Then we'll have to find new ones."
We ate in comfortable silence at first. I watched her taste the honeyed dates, the roasted quail, the wine from my private reserves.
"You're staring," she observed.
"Appreciating." I set down my wine cup. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Staring implies objectification. Appreciation implies admiration of the whole person." I paused. "That came out wrong."
"Did it?" A smile tugged at her lips. "I rather liked it."
I felt heat creep into my face. Seth had never blushed—he'd been impossible to embarrass, smoothly seductive in ways I could never match. Everything about him was polished, confident, overwhelming.
But Seth wasn't here. Perhaps that was the point. Perhaps awkward and earnest was better than smooth and predatory.
"I have something for you." I reached for the leather-bound collection. "Poetry. Some collected from Egypt's finest writers. Some..." I hesitated. "Original."
Her eyebrows rose. "You write poetry?"
"I attempt poetry. The results are questionable." I handed her the collection, fighting the urge to snatch it back. "The quality drops dramatically in the second half. You'll notice."
She opened the book, turning pages carefully. She stopped at one page, read it twice, then looked up.
"'Her eyes hold depths the Nile cannot fathom,'" she read aloud. "'Her courage makes the sun seem dim. I, who have fought gods within my own flesh, tremble at the thought of speaking to her. My heart, so long a battlefield, has found in her a place to rest.'"
I wanted to disappear. "It's terrible. The meter is wrong, the imagery is derivative—"
"Ram." I stopped talking. "It's the most beautiful thing anyone's ever written for me. It's terrible poetry. Truly awful. But it's yours."
"I wanted to give you something that wasn't political. Something from..." I gestured at my chest. "Whatever's in here. I'm still figuring out what that is."
She closed the book gently, holding it against her chest. "No one's ever tried to figure that out for me before. They wanted my body, my mark, my connections. But the figuring out part?" She shook her head. "That's new."
"Then everyone before me was a fool."
"Including Seth?"
The name landed between us. I considered deflecting. Instead: "Do you want to know how it happened? How he came to be inside me?"
She went still. "Only if you want to tell me."
I'd never told anyone the full truth. But sitting here with her, in the lantern light...
"I was fifteen. My father was dying—a wasting sickness no physician could cure. He'd been strong my whole life, and then over six months, he just faded. I sat vigil by his bed the final night." I stared at the lantern flame, seeing instead a darkened chamber, a dying king. "In the final moments, his eyes opened—but they weren't his eyes. They were crimson."
"Seth."
"He'd been bound inside my father's bloodline for generations. No one told me." The old bitterness surfaced. "A voice that wasn't my father's said: 'I'm sorry, boy. This is how it must be.' Then darkness. Drowning. Like being shoved underwater while something else climbed inside my skull."
I felt her hand tighten on mine. I couldn’t even tell when she managed to reach for it.
“When I woke up, my father was gone—truly gone, his spirit departed to the Duat. Seth was already rifling through my memories—pulling them apart like a scribe searching scrolls, examining everything I'd ever felt or thought or feared." My voice roughened.
"He didn't ask. Didn't explain. Just started consuming who I was, piece by piece, making room for himself inside my mind. I didn't even get to say goodbye to my father. Every time I tried to mourn, Seth was there, pushing me aside, taking control of my body to handle the funeral arrangements, to receive the priests, to sit on the throne that was suddenly mine. I was fifteen years old, trapped in my own skull, screaming while a god wore my face and spoke with my voice."
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "That wasn't you. A fifteen-year-old boy didn't choose that."
The words cracked something open in my chest.
"Seth wanted to possess you. Own you. Consume you." I met her eyes. "I just want to know you. Understand you. Maybe, eventually, deserve you."
Silence stretched between us—not uncomfortable, but charged with possibility.
Then Enet laughed.
Not the small sound from earlier. A real laugh, full and genuine, her head tipping back.
"I'm sorry," she managed. "I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing because you just compared yourself to a chaos god and declared yourself the lesser option, and somehow that's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
I found myself smiling. "I'm not sure that was a compliment."
"It was." She leaned forward, close enough that I could smell the lotus oil in her hair. "You're awkward and earnest and you write terrible poetry and you have no idea how to court someone. It's the most endearing thing I've ever witnessed."
"Endearing wasn't what I was aiming for."
"You succeeded at something better." Her fingers now brushing my hand with tenderness. "You succeeded at being real. At being Ram instead of Pharaoh." Her touch lingered. "I've been impressive. I've had seduction and divinity. But real? That's rare."
I turned my hand over, letting her fingers interlace with mine. Simple, human warmth spreading up my arm.
"Tomorrow you become Queen," I said quietly.
"Tomorrow I officially become Queen." She squeezed my hand. "But tonight helped. The lanterns. The terribly beautiful poetry. All of it."
"It was worth everything." She rose, still holding my hand. "Walk me to my chambers?"
I nodded, and walked with her through the lamplit garden, her hand warm in mine, the poetry book tucked under her other arm. The night air carried jasmine and possibility. Tomorrow would bring ceremony and crowns and the weight of a kingdom watching.
But tonight, we'd been two people learning how to be real with each other. She knew my worst secret now—the boy who'd lost his father and himself in the same terrible moment. And she hadn't pulled away.
It wasn't love yet. But it was something growing. Something entirely my own, untainted by Seth's influence.
And that was enough.