Chapter 3

The great hall of the palace shimmered in the glow of torches and resin-fed braziers. The air pulsed with heat and heavy scents: myrrh, incense, crushed lotus. The painted columns caught the flames, casting warped shadows across the walls—like a crowd of restless spirits witnessing the feast.

The tables sagged under the weight of food: roasted geese, steaming cuts of beef, honey and date cakes. Lotus wine flowed without measure, poured into cups that clashed to the rhythm of laughter.

Merit, draped in white veils and gold necklaces laid upon her like chains, sat at Nakht’s right hand. From their elevated seats they towered over the assembly, like living statues to be adored.

The dignitaries filed past in an endless stream. Men in perfumed wigs, women heavy with jewels, dropped to their knees before them. They laid down offerings, whispered vows, pledged loyalty. Merit bowed her head, murmured blessings in a steady voice, but her gaze kept drifting away—to the columns, or to nothing at all.

In the center of the hall, dancers burst forward, sheer veils floating around their bodies. Drums pounded, sistra jingled, and laughter rippled through the crowd when one of them pretended to stumble before spinning gracefully back into step.

Merit blinked. Her hands, clamped tight around her cup, never moved. Beside her, Nakht clapped and laughed openly, his face already flushed with wine. She studied his profile: the rosy cheeks, the shining eyes, that too-easy smile.

A burn rose in her chest. Just yesterday, she had caught—no. She stiffened. The image of Tiaa and him broke through, uncontrollable. Her own servant, her brother. She had thought him a child, still innocent. She had been wrong.

A noble stepped forward, kneeling, an amethyst necklace in his hands. His voice trembled with emotion. “May the Great Wife soon give the gods a son, so that the Nile may once more be generous.”

The words struck Merit like a blow. She lowered her head, whispered a reply, but her throat was tight. Behind the man, another was already waiting, a jar of wine in his arms. The line never ended.

Laughter, cheers for the dancers, the clatter of dishes swelled into a deafening tide. Everything was too sharp, too brilliant, like paint smeared over a corpse’s face.

Merit turned slightly. Her brother raised his cup, drank in greedy gulps, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand like a boy. She stared at him in disbelief. How could he play along with this masquerade so easily? Did he even understand?

Her fingers dug into her cup. Her mind screamed, but around her the world spun on: cymbals cracked, dancers twirled, nobles knelt, wine spilled. The whole banquet pulsed with triumph.

And yet, for Merit, every laugh rang like an insult, every blessing like a sentence.