The Forbidden Throne
Copyright© 2025 by Tharnoren
Chapter 2
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 2 - After their parents’ murder, the priests crown young Nakht pharaoh and force his sister Merit to become his queen. To end famine and restore the Nile, they must conceive a pure-blooded heir—an unholy union that will twist duty into forbidden desire.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual NonConsensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Incest Brother Sister MaleDom Rough Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie Oral Sex Pregnancy Royalty
Merit yanked him aside, dragging him close to one of the massive pillars that held up the gallery. Her fingers dug into his arm, tight enough to hurt. The roar of the hall still hammered in her skull, that endless murmur of voices invoking the gods.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Her breath came out sharp, breaking. Her eyes searched her brother’s face. “And that smile ... Nakht, what the hell was that?”
He looked away for a moment, as if his thoughts had dissolved elsewhere. “It’s insane, I know...” he murmured. “I can hardly believe it myself.”
Merit stepped closer, her heart racing. “Then say it! Tell them it’s madness.”
He gave a weak shake of the head. “I ... I don’t know what to think.”
Her throat tightened. Despite herself, her eyes softened, heavy with grief. “Don’t tell me you’re fine with this ... Not you...”
Nakht finally lifted his gaze, his eyes still swollen from tears. He stayed silent for a moment, then spoke slowly: “Maybe ... maybe this is what has to be done. For the gods. To bring the water back.”
The words hit her like a blow. Merit jerked back, taking a step away. “To bring the water back?” She shook her head, a short, nervous laugh nearly slipping out. “No ... no, listen to me. You might understand what it means to wear the crown...” She pointed a trembling finger at him, her voice raw. “But this ... what they’re demanding of us ... you don’t get it!”
He frowned, just barely, but said nothing.
Merit closed the space again, fever burning in her eyes. “You think this is just some ancient rite, a sacred duty, a burden we’re forced to carry. But it’s not just that.” Her mouth went dry as she struggled for words. “What they want, Nakht ... it isn’t a prayer, it isn’t a ceremony. It’s our bodies.” She drew in a sharp breath, her gaze blazing with fury. “You don’t understand what that means. You think it’s just a title. But it’s not. It’s me. It’s you. It’s...” Her voice fell, almost ashamed of having to say it aloud. “It’s not a game.”
He didn’t move. His lips parted, but no sound came.
Silence crushed them. Merit, her chest burning, stared at him as if trying to rip out a reaction. Nothing.
So she whispered, softer now, the way one speaks to a child: “You don’t understand...”
Still nothing.
She shook her head, her throat raw. “You’ve always said I’d make a better ruler than you. You told me it wasn’t your role, that you hated the weight, the responsibility...” She paused, her wet eyes locked on his. “You always pushed me forward, Nakht. You used to say I’d be a worthy Pharaoh. And now...” Her voice cracked. “Now you turn away.”
He lowered his head, face frozen.
Merit clenched her fists. Every part of her screamed to shake him, to snap him out of it. But her arms fell limp at her sides. A dull ache spread in her chest, heavier than anger.
“I thought you were with me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I thought you felt the same revolt. But you just stand there, repeating their words...”
She stared at him again, desperate for a sign, a spark of rebellion in his eyes. Nothing. Just that silence, that emptiness that wasn’t him.
Merit released his arm with a sudden shove. She stepped back, two quick strides, breathless, then turned on her heel with a sharp, cutting movement.
Her footsteps echoed on the stone. Each one felt like tearing a piece of flesh from her body. She felt his gaze burning in her back, but she didn’t turn. She crossed the gallery with firm strides, breath ragged, lips trembling.
Night had already wrapped itself around Thebes when the palace doors opened onto the funerary hall. Torches lined the columns, their flames dancing against painted surfaces, reflected in gold and glazed tiles. The air was thick with incense and burning oils, a cloying heaviness that clung to skin and throat.
At the center, upon two funeral beds shrouded in pure white linens, lay the rulers. Their bodies rested in trembling light, surrounded by jars, amulets, and withered flowers. At the foot of the biers, priests in a half-circle chanted in one deep, solemn voice. Their psalms rose in waves, filling the hall with an otherworldly resonance.
Merit stepped into the sacred uproar, her head held high. Her gaze locked on the white sheets, and every muscle in her body tensed. The sweet perfume of resins made her stomach turn. Step by step she moved forward, until she stood beside Nakht.
Her brother had collapsed to his knees. His hands clutched at the cloth as if he could tear death away with his grip. His sobs broke out unrestrained, shaking his back. He looked like a lost child. Merit, though suffocated by pain, stood tall. No sobs left her lips. She stared at the shrouds, unable to give herself over to tears.
The priests pressed on, their voices already blending with promises:
“May their passage open the way to the gods ... may the heir to come bring the rebirth of the kingdom...”
Merit’s stomach twisted. Even here, in the presence of the dead, they were already speaking of the child to be. Her parents were no more than a prelude to another story—the one the priests demanded of them.
Her fists clenched tight. She stood rigid, a statue carved in grief.
The ritual dragged on. The chant droned, monotonous, punctuated by the slow beat of sistra. The flames warped faces, casting on the columns the shadows of a crowd larger still, as if the ancestors themselves were watching.
At last, the final verse faded, and a steward stepped forward, bowing his head.
“Let the banquet be served, to honor the memory of the sovereigns.”
A murmur of assent rippled through the assembly.
Merit felt her throat close. The thought of food, of forced laughter over dishes, struck her as obscene. Her lips tightened.
“I’m not hungry,” she said flatly.
She turned and left the hall, her footsteps echoing over stone slabs. Behind her, the torches still burned, and voices already rose again in prayer.
Moonlight bathed the chamber. White veils stirred lightly with the night breeze drifting in through the tall window, though the air remained heavy. Merit lay stretched on the low bed, eyes wide open, fixed on the painted ceiling.
She turned sharply and sat up. Sleep refused her. Her mind kept circling back to the hall of prayers, the incense, Nakht’s twisted face, and the silence he had given her. Her fingers dug into the edge of the mattress.
She rose, pacing to the window. The moon hung high, round, ringed with constellations she knew by heart. Since childhood she had loved tracing their lines: Orion the hunter, Sothis the star of the flood...
“And you,” she whispered into the night, “you won’t bring the Nile back either.”
Her own voice sounded strange in the silence. She drew a breath, folding her arms across her chest. The priests promised the gods would return if they yielded to that ancient rite. But she didn’t believe it. The water would come with the seasons—or it wouldn’t. No union, no child could change that.
Sadness flickered across her face. She thought of Thebes’ outskirts, of hollowed cheeks and children she had watered with her own hands. If they learned tomorrow that the city’s future rested on a marriage of blood, how would they react? Would hunger drive them to swallow anything served as divine will? She closed her eyes, banishing images of sunken bellies and parched lips.
But it wasn’t only the people haunting her. It was Nakht.
She saw again that strange smile in the council hall. That smile that had no place in that moment. And then his silence when she confronted him. His refusal to answer. Why?
“You always said I was the one fit to rule,” she murmured, her hands pressed against the cold stone of the ledge.
She shook her head. Was he simply lost, crushed by shock? Or had he chosen silence?
A low anger rose in her—not yet against him, but against the wall of incomprehension she could not break. She knew. She understood what the priests truly demanded: not a symbol, not a title, but a child. Flesh and blood born of their union.
And he ... he seemed blind. As if the word heir still meant nothing more than a concept to him. He doesn’t realize, he can’t realize... she thought. Twenty years old. No longer a boy, but still—Merit saw him as fragile, sheltered, too naïve to grasp the brutality of what was being forced on them.
“It’s not a game, Nakht,” she whispered to herself, repeating her own words. Her cheeks warmed, her eyes burned. “How can you stay silent? How can you smile?”
She stood there a moment, breath too quick. Anger dulled into exhaustion. She turned back to the bed and lay down again. But her thoughts kept circling, trapped like birds beating against a cage.
Time dragged on. Her mouth was dry, her stomach hollow. She hadn’t eaten since the afternoon, and hunger was beginning to claw at her insides. She hesitated for a long while, then pushed herself upright.
“Tiaa,” she called softly, reaching for the small bronze sistrum placed beside the bed. She shook it, the clear chime echoing down the corridor.
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