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Brian shifts his weight on the low stool set at his father's side. Dom - the vizier, and the other advisers sit a little farther back.
Brian doesn't usually attend these sessions - the ones where grain distribution and storage reinforcement are discussed with the overseers - but his father had asked him to sit in with him. Learn the rhythm of it, he had said.
So Brian sits with his back straight, hands folded in his lap, and listens to the men talk about silos and 'supports so old they were built during my great-grandfather's time'. He listens to Adviser Carter arguing with the overseer. He listens as Adviser Luke - one of the few Brian considers reasonable - offers his opinion in a lower voice.
He listens to his father's voice, assertive in a way Brian wonders if he will ever manage himself. He hears the tone, but the words blur together.
It's not that he doesn't care - he does, because soon he will be in his father's place: he will have to listen to the overseers' problems, the ones that require real solutions and firm decisions, even when he himself doesn't leave the palace and must only rely on reports. Reports that could be wrong. Falsified.
His father has told him that, with time, he will learn to recognize what is a lie and what is not. For now, Brian cannot, and the meeting feels exhausting, his attention struggling to stay focused.
It's warm in the room, and he can feel sweat gathering on his back beneath his linen tunic despite the servants waving palm fronds. The last days of Shemu clings to the city, dry and suffocating, and everyone is waiting for the waters to rise.
The sun through the high window casts a clean rectangle on the floor, and he watches dust drift through it. He wonders if dust itself has to respond to the gods and their visions, but he supposes it doesn't. It still obeys certain laws, though, like everything else on earth.
He hears his father conclude something and blames himself for not listening.
The overseer bows, relieved, and the meeting moves on to the next item. Despite his attempt to pay attention, Brian's gaze drifts again to the doorway, where he can see a section of the corridor - a wall painting of Horus in profile, and part of a guard's shoulder. The guard shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and Brian wonders if standing that still for so long makes your knees ache.
He still feels invincible at his age, but he knows it won't last.
He hears Adviser Carter deliberately clear his throat, and his attention shifts back to the discussion. He thinks he is invisible, but everyone here knows perfectly well that he is not ready.
When the session finally ends, his father briefly touches his shoulder. "You'll be attending more of these in the future. This is how you learn."
Brian is not sure what he learned today, but he nods.
"The temple this evening," his father reminds him. "The high priest requested you specifically for the sunset prayer."
"I know." Brian has been going to those prayers since he was old enough to memorize the words. The high priest, Arturo, says he has a gift for it, that the gods listen when he prays - a future pharaoh blessed with visions, carrying both mortal and divine power. Brian does not feel gifted; he just feels like he is trying very hard not to disappoint anyone, and he has no idea what the future holds for him.
His visions are always about Egypt - events that will happen in the near future and require a different path, either because of their negative outcomes or because the gods themselves demand it. Brian once prevented a fire in the capital, saving many houses and stables. It was enough for the people to see him as a true seer, a hope for prosperity.
He walks back to his chambers slowly. Owen, one of his main servants, is already there, sorting through a pile of cloth. He looks up when Brian enters and immediately starts talking about whether the blue linen or the white linen is more appropriate for today's evening prayers, and Brian stops listening halfway through, because Owen always works it out on his own anyway.
But Owen looks like he's waiting for an answer, and Brian says at random, "The blue."
"I was leaning toward the white. It's cleaner-looking. The blue might seem too formal."
A smile tugs at Brian's lips. Owen had already worked it out. "Then the white."
Owen pulls the white tunic free and shakes it out, checking for creases. "Are you meeting with the pharaoh later?"
"No, just the sunset prayer."
Owen does not say anything to that - he just nods and lays the tunic across the bed. Brian knows what Owen thinks about how much time he spends in the temple: too much, probably, for someone who is supposed to be learning military strategy. But Brian has always felt more certain in the temple than anywhere else. There, the rules are clear. You speak the right words, make the right offerings, and the gods hear you. It is simpler than grain distributions and silo inspections, simpler than dealing with people. Humans lie, but visions are always true.
"The bath is ready; the temperature should be just right by now. I added your favorite oils," Owen says, and when Brian finally steps into the water, he sinks down with a sigh. Baths and prayers - his favorite moments of the day.
When he finishes, he changes into the white tunic and lets Owen fuss over his necklace - a heavy piece of gold and lapis lazuli - for a moment before waving him off. "It's fine."
"It's not fine, my prince, it's uneven-"
"It's fine."
Owen sighs dramatically but steps back. Brian checks his reflection in the polished bronze disk on the wall - hair still refuses to lie flat, as always - and decides it doesn't matter. The gods probably don't care about his hair.
He's halfway to the temple when he passes Dom in the corridor, who's walking in the other direction, carrying a stack of sealed tablets - probably reports, or inventory logs, or something equally administrative that Brian has never had to deal with directly. Dom's expression is unreadable, the same way it always is when he's working, but he nods slightly when he sees Brian.
"Evening prayer, my prince?" Dom asks.
"Yes."
"You're actually on time for once."
Dom's tone is dry but amused, and Brian feels his face warm. He has, on occasion, fallen asleep in his bath and, according to Owen, he's very hard to wake.
For some reason, everyone seems to know about it, which is very embarrassing.
"I'm on time most of the time," he answers, trying to count in his head whether that is actually true.
A smile almost touches Dom's lips. "You're on time half the time. Good thing the high priest is forgiving."
Brian feels stupidly exposed. Dom probably knows the days he was on time and the days he was late better than Brian does himself. Dom always knows everything.
"Enjoy your evening, my prince," Dom says, nodding, before continuing down the corridor.
Brian goes his way.
The high priest is already waiting when Brian arrives, standing near the altar with his hands folded and his head bowed. The temple is dim and the air smells like incense. Arturo lifts his head when Brian enters and smiles.
"My prince. Right on time."
Brian almost chuckles, thinking of Dom's comment, but he just inclines his head respectfully. "I try."
Which is true.
Arturo gestures toward the space in front of the altar. "Come. We'll begin soon."
Brian moves to his usual spot, kneeling on the cool stone floor. Arturo kneels across from him, and for a moment, they're both silent.
Brian closes his eyes and tries to quiet his mind the way the priest taught him. Let go of the day's distractions, the meeting, the grain silos, and focus only on the gods, on the words he's about to speak, on the act of prayer itself.
"Breathe, my prince," Arturo says softly. "The gods do not require perfection. Only presence."
Brian exhales slowly.
The prayer itself is familiar, almost rhythmic. Brian speaks the words he's spoken a hundred times before, and Arturo responds with the traditional verses, and together they build the structure of the ceremony - offering, gratitude, supplication.
It feels like something Brian can hold onto when everything else feels uncertain.
When they finish, Arturo opens his eyes and looks at him.
"You have a strong connection to the divine," he says. "Stronger than most. Your father is fortunate to have a son so blessed."
Brian doesn't know what to say to that. He's heard it before - the high priest has always spoken highly of his visions, his prayers, his dedication.
"I just... do what I'm supposed to," he says finally.
Arturo smiles. "That humility is part of the blessing. The gods favor those who do not seek their favor selfishly." He rises slowly, brushing dust from his knees, and Brian does the same. As they walk toward the temple entrance together, the priest pauses and reaches into the folds of his robe, pulling out something wrapped in cloth.
"I have something for you," Arturo says. "A gift."
Brian blinks, surprised. "A gift?"
The priest unwraps the cloth carefully, revealing a dagger. It's beautiful - curved blade, polished to a mirror shine, with a handle inlaid with lapis lazuli and gold. The kind of weapon that's meant for ceremony, not combat.
"A symbol of your strength," Arturo says, holding it out before offering Brian an understanding smile. "The New Year approaches, and with it, renewal. Your father has asked me to prepare you for what lies ahead. As your duties increase, I know more and more responsibility is being placed on you. Not only are you expected to one day take your father's place, but you are also one of the Chosen, as I am. That can feel overwhelming. You will need strength in the years to come. Let this remind you that you have it, and that the gods are always with you."
Brian takes it carefully, feeling its weight in his hand. It is heavier than he expected. A small smile touches his lips. "Thank you, High Priest."
The priest's expression is warm. "It is my honor, my prince."
Brian carries the dagger back to his chambers, turning it over in his hands as he walks. The blade catches the torchlight, throwing bright reflections onto the walls. Owen isn't here when he arrives - probably off eating dinner, or gossiping with the other servants - so Brian sets the dagger on the small table beside his bed and sits down heavily.
He lies back on the bed and stares at the ceiling, waiting for Owen to return for the evening routine. He doesn't see the dust, but he knows it's there, surrounding him.
For all his mortal and divine power, he feels only small and uncertain at times.
:::
Over the next six days of the second cycle, Brian attends another meeting with his father - this one about military supplies, somehow even more tedious than grain distribution. Luke and Carter argue even more than usual, and even Dom has to raise his voice, which is mildly frightening.
He also attends his usual sword‑practice drills with the Guard Captain, Deckard, in the training courtyard.
The sun beats down on them, and sweat runs into Brian's eyes. He blinks it away, raising his practice blade to block the captain's strike. The impact rings up his arm.
"Better," Deckard says, circling him. "Your footwork is improving."
Brian adjusts his stance, trying to remember what the captain taught him last time about weight distribution.
Deckard lunges without warning. Brian pivots, bringing his blade up to parry, but the captain's sword slips past his guard and stops just short of his ribs.
"Your guard is still too high," Deckard says, stepping back. "You're leaving your entire left side exposed."
Brian lowers his arms, breathing hard. "I thought I had it."
"You almost did. Try again."
They reset. This time, Brian focuses on keeping his guard lower, watching Deckard's shoulders instead of his blade. The captain moves - a feint to the right - and Brian reads it, doesn't follow the bait, catches the real strike coming from the left.
Their blades clash, and Brian holds the position for a heartbeat before the captain disengages, nodding.
"Good. You read that one."
Brian exhales, feeling a flicker of satisfaction. He prefers this - the training, the drills, the clarity of something he can actually see. Training doesn't use words, only reflexes. It does require reading the opponent's mind, but even more so their body: knowing if they're going to go left or right, where the attack will come from, whether it's a feint or not.
His father once told him that if he was better at reading intentions than lies, he could learn to read bodies to detect lies. Brian still thinks it's easier to read a hit than to read hidden meanings.
But he knows he will have to learn how to do both.
"I know you have responsibilities toward your future role and the gods," Captain Deckard says when they finish. "But do not forget that visions are only an asset - one that should not blind you to reality. They may save the country, serve the gods, but if they cannot help you when you need them, you must know how to act on your own."
Brian nods. He knows what Deckard is saying - that images in the mind cannot protect him from real danger.
He imagines what his life might have been if he had been a simple commoner with visions. He would probably have worked in the temple, like most seers. It would have been a life where expectations rested only on his visions.
But here, he feels as though he is expected to excel at everything.
He feels Deckard's hand on his shoulder. "Worry not, my prince. A pharaoh is never alone in his task. That is why advisers exist."
Brian remembers seven years ago, when an adviser worked to undermine his father's right to rule. He thinks of all the betrayals that have ever existed and wonders whether trust is truly possible when it comes hand in hand with power.
Brian has always trusted easily, and he knows this life will wear that out of him.
But he nods again and smiles. "Yes, Captain Deckard."
:::
That evening, Owen is folding tunics when Brian returns to his chambers, still dusty from the training yard.
"You look like you've been rolling in the sand, my prince," Owen says, looking up.
"The captain is intensifying the training." Brian drops onto the edge of the bed. "I don't know if he's trying to train me or kill me early, but I think my legs are going to fall off."
Owen smiles. "Do not be dramatic, my prince. You know the Captain always takes his duties seriously. It cannot be easy for him, when your training is only part of what is expected of you - especially since you are blessed with visions as well."
That commoner life Brian had imagined - temples and nothing else. He watches Owen work for a moment, then says, "I have a request."
Owen glances over his shoulder, unsettled by the suddenness. "Yes?"
Brian hesitates, searching for the right words. "I need you to lie to me sometimes."
Owen stills. "You need me to… lie?"
"Yes. Randomly. About small things." Brian says it bluntly, then shifts his weight, suddenly awkward. "So I can practice telling when people aren't being truthful. You know I'm terrible at it, and I can't practice with the overseers. But I can see my father notices things I don't."
Owen sets the clothes down slowly and turns to face him fully. "He has years of practice, my prince. No one expects you to be perfect at your age."
Brian looks at the folded clothes, his gaze unfocused. "Not yet, perhaps. But I can't pretend it won't happen." He exhales softly. "My father asks me to assist at more and more reports and sessions. The Captain keeps intensifying my training. The High Priest places a faith in me that I do not deserve. Even the advisers look at me differently now - Carter and Luke seem to doubt I can carry the pharaoh's crown."
Owen approaches him. "My prince, are you feeling all right?"
Brian forces a smile. "Yes. I am. I just… don't want to be a disappointment."
Owen's expression shifts. He doesn't press further - he knows better. He's been his most trusted servant, the one who has known him since he was a child.
"I will, my prince," Owen says at last. "That doesn't mean I like this plan, but… I understand."
:::
It takes four more days before Brian catches a lie. It is the last day of the second cycle, just before evening prayer, and Owen tells him it has been canceled because the High Priest is ill.
The worst part is that it takes Brian a moment to realize it is a lie. And even then, he only does because the longer the time stretches, the more discomfort shows on Owen's face. The prayer was not canceled - and Owen does not want Brian to arrive late because of his lie.
Most liars wouldn't worry about something like that.
Now, Owen is dressing him in a hurry.
The second‑worst part is that Owen tells him he has been lying to him at least three times a day - and Brian has not noticed any of it.
"You're too trusting," Owen says gently. "And that's not a flaw, not really. It's just… not something a pharaoh can afford. Trust the people who've earned it, but verify the things that matter. You never know what people might be hiding. It's not about living as though everyone is your enemy, but about assuming that anything might be wrong."
Brian stares at the wall. It sounds like all the advice his father or Dom has given him his entire life: trust should be earned, not given. "That sounds like a tiring burden," he says at last.
"It is," Owen agrees quietly.
Another reason to prefer visions over people.
Another reason to know that his moments in the temple will always be his favorite - even fifty years from now. He wants to cherish them now more than ever, before duty calls, before it claims time he does not have, before turning to the gods feels like obligation rather than choice.
"I suppose I have no choice but to try," Brian says quietly.
Owen stands, brushing off his tunic. "And remember, they're grown men who've forgotten what it was like when they were starting out. None of them ever carried your responsibilities on their shoulders - not even your father, because he didn't have visions. So don't let it weigh on you, focus on yourself."
Brian smiles.
Owen moves toward the door, then pauses. "Now run, before you're late."
:::
The high priest does not scold him when Brian arrives, slightly out of breath. He simply gestures him forward with a calm smile.
"Come, my prince."
Brian moves to his usual spot and kneels. The temple is quieter than usual tonight - no other priests present, no acolytes tending the braziers. Just the two of them and the flickering light of oil lamps.
They begin the prayer together. Brian closes his eyes and lets the words carry him, feeling the weight of the day slowly lift from his shoulders.
A vision crashes into him without warning, as they always do, pulling him out of the prayer and into something else entirely. His eyes are still closed, but he's no longer in the temple.
He stands outside, surrounded by crowds. The Wag Festival - he recognizes it immediately. It happens during the first month of the Akhet season, when the Nile is flooding and the agricultural labor is reduced.
Soon.
Processions move through the streets, people carrying offerings toward the temporary altars set up throughout the city. Music, voices, laughter.
But his attention narrows on a small group moving through the crowd. Five figures - no, six. They blend in, dressed like anybody else. On any other day, he would not have noticed them. But visions rarely show mundane moments, so he watches closely.
One distracts a merchant while another slips a hand into a basket of votive objects. A third lifts a necklace from an altar while the crowd's attention is fixed on the procession passing by.
Food. Jewelry. Amulets. Small objects meant for ancestors or the gods. Textiles draped over offering tables. Brian is carried from scene to scene, as though time itself does not exist within the vision.
He sees their faces clearly - each one distinct.
The vision shifts, shows him the total they've stolen - more than the usual petty thefts that happen during festivals.
Then it releases him, and he's back in the temple, with Arturo's hand on his shoulder.
"My prince?"
Brian opens his eyes, blinking. His heart is still racing.
"I had a vision," he says, his voice rough.
Arturo's expression sharpens. "The gods have spoken. Tell me."
Brian takes a breath, steadying himself. "The Wag Festival. There's a group planning thefts during the procession. They're organized, working together. I saw them taking offerings from the altars, stealing from merchants while the crowds are distracted."
Thievery was common - punished, but still common. This time, though, the quantity was larger than usual, especially for only six people.
Arturo nods slowly, his gaze intent. "You saw their faces?"
"Yes. Clearly."
It always feels strange to condemn someone before they've done anything. The first time Brian had a vision showing someone specific committing a crime - he'd been a child then - he hadn't said anything. He'd feared the person would be executed, worried that maybe the vision was just a possibility rather than a certainty.
The vision had come true. The crime had happened exactly as he'd seen it.
Since then, he'd learned to take his visions seriously.
Sometimes, even with all the seers in Egypt, crises didn't appear in visions. Sometimes they did, but each seer's connection to the gods wasn't the same. Some visions were too blurry or fragmented to make sense - only becoming clear when the event was finally happening and the seer could connect the dots.
Brian knew his own visions were usually strong and precise. Arturo's were the same. The high priest had once told him that if Brian hadn't been destined to be pharaoh, he would have made a great replacement as high priest.
"This is a blessing," Arturo says, his voice warm with approval. "If the gods gave you this vision during prayer, it means they acknowledge your faith is strong. They trust you with their messages."
They both stood slowly, and Arturo continues. "We'll need to warn your father and the vizier. If we act quickly, we can prevent these thefts before they happen."
"I can identify them," Brian offers.
"Good. Your father will want confirmation." Arturo moves toward the altar, extinguishing one of the lamps.
People may doubt Brian's ability to be pharaoh, but no one doubts his visions. Not Luke, not Carter - and certainly not his father.
He watches Arturo covering the offerings and sealing the incense burners.
"High Priest," Brian says after a moment. "Do you ever wonder if the visions are... a burden?"
Arturo pauses, glancing back at him. "A burden?"
"Knowing what will happen. Being responsible for stopping it."
Arturo's expression softens. "They are, in a way. All gifts from the gods are." He sets down the cloth he'd been holding and approaches Brian. "But that burden is also an honor. Most people live their entire lives without ever hearing the gods speak to them directly. We are chosen - you and I both. That comes with weight, yes. But it also comes with purpose."
Brian wants to believe that. He wants to feel the certainty Arturo seems to carry so easily.
"I suppose so," he says quietly.
Arturo studies him for a moment, then reaches into the folds of his robe. "I have something else for you."
Brian blinks, surprised.
"You've been working hard, and you look tired," Arturo says. He pulls out a small object wrapped in linen and holds it out.
Brian takes it carefully, unwrapping the cloth. Inside is an amulet - a small carving of an eye, inlaid with blue stone. The Eye of Horus.
"For clarity of vision and faith - the kind the gods grant you, and the kind you'll need as pharaoh," Arturo explains. "You carry more than most, my prince. This is a reminder that you don't carry it alone. In difficult situations, let it remind you that the gods see what you see, and that they trust you to act on their behalf."
Brian turns the amulet over in his palm. "Thank you," he says, as he slips the cord over his head. He can tell it is just as significant as the dagger has been.
"I'll go to the pharaoh and the vizier now," Arturo says, moving toward the temple entrance. "They'll want to hear about your vision immediately. Rest tonight, my prince. Tomorrow, they'll likely ask you to help identify the thieves."
Brian nods. "I'll be ready."
Arturo pauses at the doorway, looking back. "You already are. Trust in that."
Then he's gone, his robes disappearing into the corridor.
Brian stands alone in the temple for a moment longer, one hand touching the amulet at his chest. The vision still lingers at the edges of his mind - the faces, the stolen offerings.
He exhales slowly, then turns and leaves the temple.
:::
The next morning, he is summoned to his father's side after Arturo informs them of the vision.
Usually, the pharaoh does not oversee punishments or cases of thievery, but because this one comes from Brian's vision, it carries a different weight.
Brian is asked to describe each face in detail, artists sketching as he speaks. Both Dom and Deckard are present, and Brian knows that Deckard himself will scour the streets until he finds them - and only then will he bring them back to be confirmed by Brian.
Carter looks offended that people dare stealing - and even more on days committed to the death and the gods. They all know most people who commit crimes think they can respond to the gods later and make amends.
Once the sketching session is finished - which takes far longer than Brian expects - it is time to eat.
Just before he leaves, Dom intercepts him.
"I know it's hard for you to condemn them without proof," Dom says, and Brian is not surprised that Dom knows him so well. "But know that both the victims and the gods are grateful for it. People who believe themselves above the law leave us very few choices."
Brian nods. "I can only hope this vision was the worst of what will happen during the festival. I would hate to learn that I stopped robberies instead of preventing people from being hurt or worse."
"The gods have spoken," Dom says. "We can only trust them - and trust our seers to prevent what they can. But you are not meant to see everything. Hundreds of years have proven that seers cannot see it all; otherwise, far more tragic events would have been avoided. The goal is order, prosperity and justice - and that is what you are doing."
It is true. Brian knows it, but hearing Dom say it makes the weight lift a little. Arturo had spoken of the purpose of visions; Brian had only ever thought of their burdens. The fear of condemning an innocent - but also the fear of failing to see an important crisis, or being accused of hiding it on purpose.
But he is only a man, and a man is no god.
He smiles. Somehow, hearing it from Dom's mouth is reassuring.
Dom's gaze drops to Brian's torso.
"New amulet?" he asks.
Brian glances down at it, as if he'd forgotten he was wearing it. "Oh. Yes. The high priest gave it to me last night, after the evening prayer. He said it's for faith and visions. The cycle before that, he gave me a dagger for strength."
Dom's gaze lingers on the amulet for another moment, then lifts to Brian's face. "He often gives you gifts?"
"During festivals, usually. Those ones are to celebrate the New Year, to accompany my path as the future pharaoh, and to remind me that the gods are with me, he said."
Dom shifts the tablets in his grip. "The High Priest has always placed a lot of trust in you." He pauses, then adds, "It's a fine piece. It suits you."
Brian feels heat creep up his neck. He isn't sure how to explain the weight of expectation that comes with every moment spent trying to live up to what others think he should be.
"I don't really... I mean, I don't think I've done anything to deserve it, though. The visions just come to me - it's not something I've earned."
Dom's expression softens, just slightly. "You're worthy, my prince. Don't doubt that."
The words warm Brian, and he nods, grateful in a way he can't quite articulate. He smiles and thanks Dom.
:::
The amulet remains around Brian's neck. Somehow, it helps - not with the visions exactly, as he does not have any new ones, but with his focus. It is a reminder that he will not have to face everything alone. His destiny may not be as great as Arturo imagines, but instead of dwelling on the mistakes he might make, Brian pays closer attention during reports and military sessions, listening carefully and trying to understand each point of view.
He's still not very good at spotting lies, but he can pick up on hesitation and on moments when things don't quite add up. What he learns quickly, though, is how to anticipate each adviser's reactions. It helps that he's known most of them for years, even if he hadn't taken part in the sessions before.
Advisers Luke and Carter in particular become interesting to listen to over time, rather than intimidating. Brian begins to understand their arguments and the consequences of the decisions being discussed. He doesn't yet have the knowledge to know which choices should be made, but he's starting to see the bigger picture.
He also learns that Deckard is just as sharp - and just as sparing with words - in council sessions as he is on the training grounds. Deckard has trained him for years, and is one of the few who has always regarded him with trust and understanding.
Perhaps it's because Deckard has little patience for long discussions, finding extended debates and political discussions especially exhausting.
What does not change is that the best part is still when everything is finished - when it is time for a bath and then the temple. And it is well deserved today, because Deckard has managed to find the group of six thieves, and Brian had to confirm that it was them after that session.
They are beaten publicly and sentenced to forced labor. The punishment is meant as a reminder that the gods see all, and that no one stands beyond judgment. It is not a spectacle, but a re‑establishment of order.
It doesn't make it any easier. Brian sleeps badly that night - worse still, he wakes drenched in sweat, his heart racing.
But it isn't a nightmare. He falls asleep with the thieves on his mind, yet he wakes because of something else. A vision - or so he thinks. It doesn't feel like one. It is black. Only black. Nothing to see, nothing to grasp.
Sometimes, when visions came at night, it was hard to tell them apart from dreams. Brian learned the difference: dreams were usually incoherent, fragments slipping away and fading into nothing as he woke. Visions, by contrast, were clear and precise, lingering in his mind long after his eyes opened.
But this one was only black. There was nothing to remember, nothing to interpret - except the isolation he had felt in that moment.
He stands. Through the two small high windows, he can see that no light has come yet. He looks around; the room is silent, almost unnaturally still, too dark, and it leaves him uneasy. He lies back down, closing his eyes, but he knows sleep will not come easily tonight.
He doesn't know what to do with that vision.
:::
The following day brings more joyful news - an important treaty is signed with the Kushite delegation that has been residing in the palace for the past month.
The treaty has been in the making for several cycles - negotiations over grain shipments in exchange for gold and ivory, agreements about trade routes along the Nile, and most importantly, mutual defense against raiders who've been troubling both kingdoms' southern borders.
It takes a great deal of time and far too many words for something that should have been simple. When Brian says as much to Dom at the end, Dom lets out a quiet laugh.
"There's nothing simple about a treaty, actually. Every word is chosen deliberately. Every clause exists because someone, somewhere, once tried to exploit a loophole."
Brian considers that.
Dom continues, his voice lower. "One day, you'll be the one sitting in that chair, and you'll need to know when to compromise and when to stand firm. Treaties can prevent wars - but they can also start them if they're written carelessly."
"I will remember that," Brian mutters.
Dom smiles at him. "The growth of the mind is slower to notice, but worry not, my prince. You are learning."
"I suppose that's true," Brian answers with a tentative smile.
He thinks back to the vision. They aren't supposed to be pointless, so it has to mean something, but he's never had one this unclear before, never had one he couldn't make sense of.
Dom notices the frown. "What is it, my prince? Something bothering you?"
Brian blinks. "Oh- no. Just… a vision. Or maybe not really a vision. I don't know."
"You don't know?" Dom asks, looking more concerned. "What about it makes you doubt it?" Then his tone shifts, lighter. "If you saw the pharaoh dancing on tables, it was probably a dream."
Brian gave out a quiet chuckle, though his eyebrows are still drawn together. "No, actually, it was…" He hesitates. He hasn't told his father or the High Priest about it - he doesn't want to worry them. But telling Dom feels… safe. "It was just black."
"Black?" Dom says. "Like you couldn't see anything at all?"
Brian nods. "Yeah. It's the first time I've had a vision like that, so I'm not really sure how to read it yet."
He can tell Dom is taking it seriously - maybe even more seriously than Brian himself. He looks worried, which makes Brian keep talking, trying to lighten the mood.
"I'll figure it out," he says with a small shrug. "Soon enough, I guess. It's fine. Maybe it was just a weird nightmare."
"Alright," Dom says, not looking entirely convinced. "You tell me if you have another one like that, or if something feels off. Okay?"
"Yes, I will."
He feels better knowing that someone else knows about it. If there's anyone he has always trusted, it's Dom.
:::
Dom doesn't really know what he's looking for, but he looks anyway. He goes to the archives attached to the temple, where old scrolls are kept.
In normal times, only priests had access to knowledge. But after what happened fifty years ago - after the old rituals were banished and even possessing knowledge of them became punishable by death - the Pharaoh needed someone he trusted to recognize the signs if they ever appeared again. As the Pharaoh had said, to forget a danger is to invite its return. So since the banishment, that responsibility no longer belonged to priests alone. Viziers were given access as well.
He searches for anything about visions - any mention of one that is nothing but black.
He has never studied visions much before. He isn't one of the blessed, and he has always trusted the seers to carry that knowledge for him. He let them interpret, let them understand. Most seers ended up in the temple. They were taught to read, taught to serve Egypt through what the gods had given them.
He spends a long moment searching and finds nothing. In the end, one of the priests, Leon, stops beside him.
"You're looking for something, Vizier?" Leon says. "Night has already fallen."
Dom hesitates. He doesn't want to involve anyone else, but no one would know better than a seer. Brian reads scrolls when he can, but he has many other duties. Leon works at the temple. Leon is a seer. He would know more than Dom ever could.
"Yes," he says finally. "Have you ever heard of a vision that shows nothing but darkness?"
Leon looks thoughtful. "I'm afraid not. Before the scrolls, I might have said it is a sign of passing into the next life. But we have records of seers who witnessed their own deaths - and those visions never show anything beyond the final moment. Only the instant when life ends. Are you certain it was a vision?"
Dom can't say. "No." He pauses. "But I'd like to look at the scrolls concerning visions of final moments."
Maybe something had been overlooked. A detail lost over time - something about visions fading into black, a sign that the body had stopped breathing.
He would have preferred it if Brian had told him he'd seen the pharaoh dancing on tables.
Leon nods. "Of course. There are a few copies."
Dom thinks for a moment. "Is it possible that some scrolls about visions are kept in the restricted room? I've never seen any there, but I've also never looked for them before."
"As you know, access to knowledge is limited," Leon says, "but many of us here are seers. The Pharaoh has always made sure we could access anything related to visions, so we would have every possible tool to understand them. The restricted area is only for funerary texts, state secrets, certain historical records, medical writings, and forbidden rituals."
Dom nods. It makes sense, and it confirms what he has always seen when he needed access to that place.
Leon brings him the scrolls, but after another long moment of searching, there is still nothing. No mention of blackness. No vision that is only darkness.
Maybe it really had been a dream. The prince has been under a lot of pressure lately; the fatigue, the stress - maybe it had simply turned into a nightmare.
Dom sighs. The thought doesn't ease his mind at all.
:::
Morning comes - one of the last few days before the five intercalary days that precede the New Year.
The palace is deep in its preparations. Brian watches from the courtyard as he waits for Owen. A group of younger servants passes by, laughing as they balance baskets of linen on their heads - white cloth meant to drape the altars. One stumbles, and the others catch him, their laughter ringing out, light and unguarded.
It's ordinary, simple, and Brian finds himself grateful for it. For a moment, it pushes the memory of the black vision from his mind.
Owen appears shortly after. "The kitchens are preparing honey cakes for the offerings."
Brian nods.
They walk back through the corridors together, Owen chatting easily about the preparations. Brian half‑listens, letting the steady rhythm of his voice quiet his thoughts.
Another year has passed, he thinks. He wonders what will have unfolded by the time the next New Year arrives.
They reach Brian's chambers, where Owen begins sorting through a collection of small clay oil lamps - part of the tradition for the intercalary days, when light is meant to guide the gods through the liminal space between years.
"These need to be filled and placed along the corridors tomorrow," Owen says, lifting one to inspect it for cracks. "Good. This one's in perfect condition."
After a moment, Owen finishes, but he doesn't leave right away. Instead, his gaze drifts to the dagger resting on the small table beside Brian's bed.
"My prince," he begins, then stops.
Brian waits. When it becomes clear Owen isn't going to continue, he asks gently, "What is it?"
Owen looks back at him. "I understand the value of this gift. I hope it has brought you strength." He hesitates, fingers curling into his palm. "But I don't think it's wise to keep it so close to your bed."
Brian follows his gaze to the dagger. It wasn't meant for combat, but it could still cause harm. "It could help me defend myself," he says.
"Or it could be used against you," Owen blurts out, then freezes, eyes widening. "I'm sorry, my prince. I don't mean to wish harm on you. I'm just… not reassured by having a weapon so close."
Brian hadn't considered it before, but Owen has a point. "You're right," he says, and Owen visibly relaxes. "I'll find a safer place soon."
That seems to reassure Owen, who nods. "You should rest tonight."
Brian nods. He is tired - not in body, but in the way that comes from carrying too many thoughts for too long.
He lies down.
The intercalary days are coming, and with them, renewal. A fresh beginning.
:::
It's the last day of Shemu, and Brian is on his way back to his chambers when he turns a corner and nearly collides with Dom.
Dom catches his shoulder to steady him, then steps back. "Are you alright, my prince?"
"Yes - sorry. I was lost in thought and didn't see you."
Dom's gaze drops immediately to the bracelet around Brian's wrist - wide, hammered gold, protective symbols engraved along the edge: ankhs, Eyes of Horus, a scarab. It's hard to miss, and Dom is certain he has never seen it before.
"Another gift?" he asks.
Brian nods, feeling inexplicably guilty. Dom will probably think he's nothing but a spoiled child. "Yes. Protection. To shield me from harm - in body and spirit."
He hopes it might also protect him from doubt and anxiety. He keeps talking, "I tried to tell him it was too much, but refusing felt offensive."
Dom nods absently. "When did he give you the first one?"
Brian frowns, caught off guard by the question. "The dagger? Two cycles ago, I think."
"What day?"
"I don't-" Brian pauses, thinking back. "It was… the last day of the cycle, I think. Why?"
Dom's jaw tightens, just slightly. He goes quiet for a moment, as if counting something out in his head. Then he looks back at Brian, his face carefully neutral.
"And today," he says, "is the last day of the third cycle."
Brian stares at him, confused but a little amused. "That does sound like something the High Priest would do. Tomorrow marks the beginning of the intercalary days, after all. The gifts are meant to represent the gods' guidance. Renewal." He tilts his head. "Why?"
Dom doesn't answer right away. His gaze drops back to the bracelet, then shifts to the amulet at Brian's neck. Something flickers across his face - sharp, cold, and gone almost as soon as it appears. It's an expression Brian has never seen on him before.
"No reason," Dom says at last, his voice even. "Maybe he had a vision. Saw you as pharaoh. This might just be his way of showing that his faith in you is well placed."
It's possible. Maybe the priest had a vision he isn't allowed to speak of, and this is how he's chosen to hint at Brian's future.
It's reassuring, in a way. It makes Brian's doubts feel smaller. He smiles. "I hope so."
Then he nods and heads back to his chambers.
Dom doesn't leave the corridor right away.
He stands there, tablets still in hand, staring at the empty space where Brian had been. Three gifts, each given on the last day of a cycle, in the final month of Shemu. Protection. Faith. A dagger. Strength, Brian had called it.
He's been looking for answers in the visions all along, but maybe the truth lies somewhere else.
He feels stupid. He's never lived in a time when rituals were allowed, but he's read enough forbidden texts over the years, studied enough old rituals and prophecies, to recognize the pattern when he sees it.
But he never thought-
His grip tightens on the tablets, and he forces himself to breathe slowly. Maybe he's wrong. Maybe it's just coincidence. Maybe the priest is simply devout, simply generous, trying to honor the future pharaoh the way any priest would. Maybe it really is about a vision. About the gods' protection.
But Dom doesn't believe in coincidences, and Brian's black vision feels like a sign that something is wrong.
He turns sharply and heads back toward the archives.
At this time, it's nearly empty - just a single scribe at the far end, copying something onto papyrus by the light of an oil lamp. He's probably working late; scribes usually stop at dusk. Dom passes him without slowing and makes for the restricted room, where the older, forbidden texts are kept.
The scrolls are thick with dust. Dom pulls three of them free and spreads them out on the nearest table.
There are dozens of rituals recorded here, and it's overwhelming. The language is ancient. Even though Dom has studied it, he isn't fluent. He learned enough to recognize the signs of rituals used fifty years ago against the previous pharaoh - but right now, he doesn't know what he's looking for.
Brian doesn't have power yet, he's just a prince. Dom knows of rituals that bind two souls, two destinies, but that wouldn't make sense - it wouldn't give the High Priest anything he doesn't already have. He already holds one of the highest positions in the kingdom, and he has never shown any hunger for mortal power.
He studies the ritual that permits one individual to inhabit another’s body, but there is no mention of gifts.
He reads, and reads, until his eyes start to ache.
It's only after what feels like fifty rituals that his mind finally clicks, putting things together.
Mortal power. What does Brian have that the Pharaoh doesn't? What does Brian have that a High Priest might want?
Dom remembers something, then. He hadn't paid much attention to it before - it wasn't a commonly practiced ritual, and it wouldn't have protected the Pharaoh, so it had never been a priority for him to learn.
He goes back to the other scrolls he pulled out, searching again, this time knowing what he's looking for - not the exact words, but the intent behind them.
He finds it after another moment - a ritual used by a seer to obtain what is called absolute vision. It is achieved by absorbing the vision of another seer, amplifying the receiver's own. The texts say it grants a clarity unlike anything else - visions coming more often, sharper, deeper. And to reach the highest level possible, both seers must already possess strong vision.
Which fits. The High Priest has one of the highest levels of vision ever recorded - that's why he holds his position. And Brian… Brian might have an even higher one. At least, that's what the High Priest has often implied.
Dom can't know for sure. He has no idea what a vision actually looks like from the inside. But he once saw Brian have one, when Brian was around sixteen.
Brian had gone completely still, except for his eyes, tracking things that weren't there. The words that came out of his mouth afterward had sounded unreal, disconnected from the room around them. He had looked both mentally and physically strained, the way visions were known to leave a seer.
But Dom had known. He had believed the words completely.
He keeps reading, trying to understand what absorbing the vision actually means. What he does find is enough to confirm his suspicion: the ritual speaks of three gifts, symbols of strength, protection, and faith, each given on the last day of a cycle, in the final month of Shemu.
But the part about stealing the vision itself still doesn't make sense to him, because he cannot understand half the words. He isn't even certain of the word absorbing. There are instructions for ritual markings to be painted on the ground, but the language is dense, and Dom is frustrated by how rusty he is.
Not understanding every detail doesn't change what he does understand though, and it hits him all at once: at this time, Brian is supposed to be at the temple for evening prayer.
Dom moves before he's fully aware of deciding to. He leaves the scrolls spread across the table and runs.
His thoughts race. How long it's been since Brian left, how long the prayers usually last, whether he'll reach the temple before-
He doesn't let himself finish the thought.
He reaches the door to the inner chapel and pushes it open.
For a moment, he stops right there. One more step would mean entering restricted ground - a place he has no right to be. He looks around. A narrow hall stretches ahead, lined with closed doorways. He's never been here before, and the weight of it presses down on him: opening the wrong door, breaking a sacred boundary, committing sacrilege.
He moves forward slowly, eyes on the doors. Brian is here somewhere, and Dom steels himself to open them - whatever the cost. There's no time to think about consequences.
He swallows and reaches for one when a sound behind him makes him freeze.
A door is opening.
Dom steps back quickly, retreating from the chapel's inner ground. A few seconds later, the main chapel door opens - and Brian steps through.
He looks perfectly alive - safe, whole. Unharmed.
Dom's heart lurches. When Brian sees him he stops, clearly confused to find Dom there.
"Vizier? What- is everything alright?"
Only then does Dom realize he's breathing too fast, his hands clenched tight, that he must look half‑mad. He forces himself to slow down, to get control of himself.
"Did anything happen in there?"
Brian blinks. "What do you mean? We just finished the evening prayer. What's wrong? Has there been a threat? An attack?"
Arturo steps into the doorway behind him, his expression calm, his hands folded neatly in front of him. His gaze meets Dom's, and a slight frown creases his brow.
"Those are sacred grounds, Vizier," Arturo says. "You are not permitted here. Is something wrong?"
There is. But Dom can't say it - not here, not now, not without proof.
He may be the Pharaoh's right hand, but accusing the High Priest without evidence would be suicide. It would be treason - an insult to the gods themselves. The priest has power. Influence. The ear of the gods. If Dom speaks now and he's wrong - or worse, if he's right but can't prove it - the priest will have him removed. Executed.
And then there would be no one left watching Brian. No one who knows.
The priest cannot learn of his suspicions.
Dom swallows the words clawing at his throat and smooths his expression into something neutral. "Nothing important. I just needed to speak with the prince about... New Year's decorations. It can wait."
A bad excuse, and Brian's frown deepens. "Are you sure everything's alright? You look... worried."
"I'm fine." Dom's voice comes out sharper than he means it to, and he softens it right away. "Enjoy your evening, my prince. I'll find you another day."
Brian hesitates, clearly unconvinced, then nods. "Alright. If you're sure."
The priest inclines his head toward Dom, his smile polite. "Goodnight, Vizier. May the gods watch over you."
Dom doesn't trust himself to answer. He only nods, watching as Brian and the priest walk away.
He stands there for a long moment, his pulse pounding in his ears.
Nothing has happened. And yet the suspicion clings to him, refusing to let go.
:::
The first intercalary day arrives wrapped in incense and the echo of drums through the palace halls. Brian rises before dawn, as tradition demands, and joins the small procession of priests and attendants moving toward the outer courtyard for the rites of protection.
The air is cool, the sky still dark, only just beginning to pale at the edges. Torches line the walkways. He takes his place near the front, beside his father, and watches as the priests begin their chants - words meant to reinforce the cosmic order during these fragile days, when the boundary between the mortal world and the divine grows thin.
It is beautiful. Solemn. Ancient.
Brian feels it through his entire body - a presence larger than his doubt, larger than his fear.
For his part, Dom observes everyone closely, trying to decide whether he's becoming paranoid or not. He attends the morning rites from the back of the gathering, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, the priests, and finally Brian, who looks more at peace than he has in days.
Carter is as vehement as ever during the afternoon's session. Dom has never thought him wrong to be cautious - caution saves lives. The problem is that Carter often sees threats where there are none. It makes him good at anticipating trouble, but it also means he can take things too far.
Deckard stands close to Dom at the end of the meeting, looking in the same direction - probably thinking the same thing.
"That man likely checks under his bed for scorpions every night," Deckard mutters. "I'm certain he can imagine in detail a thousand ways we might betray the throne."
Dom snorts. "He only truly trusts the Pharaoh, the priests, and the gods. We mere humans don't quite measure up."
But Carter's blind faith in the priests is precisely why he would never suspect a High Priest of using forbidden rituals - even with all his natural caution.
Dom lets the day pass, watching, listening. Arturo is focusing on the prayers, doing nothing wrong, and for a moment, Dom wonders if he hasn't imagine it all. When evening falls, and he knows Brian is safe again, he decides he would rather be overly cautious than take unnecessary risks.
The guards outside the Pharaoh's door know Dom well enough to let him pass without question, though one of them gives him a curious look. Dom ignores it. He steps into the outer chamber and finds the Pharaoh seated at his desk, reading a scroll by lamplight.
The Pharaoh looks up, surprised. "Dom? What is it?"
Dom closes the door behind him. "I need to speak with you. It's about rituals."
The Pharaoh sets the scroll aside slowly, frowning. "I hope this isn't about allowing them again. They caused far more harm than good. They're an abomination."
Dom shakes his head. "No. It's not that." He hesitates. "I… I have suspicions. About someone who might be using them. Nothing concrete. But if I'm right, it could put the prince in danger."
The Pharaoh studies him for a long moment. Dom has been his right hand for twelve years. In his service for twenty‑four. He has never lied to him - and he has saved Egypt from more dangers than the Pharaoh can count.
At last, the Pharaoh leans back in his chair. "I'm listening," he says. "But you understand that unfounded accusations could cost you dearly, Dom."
Dom's throat tightens. But the prince is worth the fear. Worth the risk. Worth the consequences.
"I know."
He forces the words out, his heart racing. This could end very badly for him, but he knows he won't regret trusting his instincts. He tells him about the gifts - the dagger, the bracelet, the amulet. Three gifts, given on three specific days. He explains what they represent: strength, protection, faith.
The Pharaoh listens without interrupting. Dom never names anyone, never makes an outright accusation. But the Pharaoh isn't a fool. He knows exactly who gave those gifts to his son.
Then Dom tells him about the forbidden texts he found in the archives. About the ritual that requires three gifts - and then demands the absorption of the giver's eyes. When Dom finishes, the Pharaoh is silent for a long moment, his fingers drumming slowly against the armrest of his chair.
"You're making a grave accusation," the Pharaoh says quietly. "The High Priest has been faithful to me for years - longer than you have been my Vizier. He is the gods' direct mortal voice, the closest to divinity after the royal line."
"I know," Dom says. "I pray to the gods that I am wrong. And if I am, I will accept whatever consequences follow. But I cannot keep these suspicions to myself and risk the prince's life simply to protect my own. It is my duty, as your Vizier, to warn you of anything that gives me cause for concern. That is why you granted me access to the knowledge in the first place."
The Pharaoh exhales slowly. He rises and moves to the window, hands clasped behind his back as he looks out over the city.
"Brian is devout," he says. "He takes his bond with the gods seriously. He spends more time in the temple than I ever did at his age. But he also has visions - something I never had. Faith. The High Priest has always praised that. Spoken of how Brian will be a great Pharaoh."
"Yes," Dom says carefully. "And the High Priest also has access to the forbidden texts. The ritual centers on visions. And the timing of the gifts-"
"I understand." The Pharaoh turns back to face him. "Tomorrow, I'll speak with High Priest Arturo. Not about your suspicions directly, of course - but I'll watch his reaction. I'll ask him about rituals in general. About Brian. See if anything seems… off."
Dom nods, a quiet sense of relief settling in.
"If I sense anything amiss," the Pharaoh continues, "I'll assign you as Brian's close guard. I'll grant you access to the inner chapels, the prayer rooms if needed. You'll be able to watch both of them."
Dom bows his head. Tomorrow, he'll have answers. Tomorrow, he'll be able to protect Brian properly.
"Thank you."
The Pharaoh's expression softens, just a little. "I trust your judgment, Dom. I always have. Even if these suspicions prove unfounded, I value the care you bring to such details. That attentiveness has saved us more times than I can count. You will keep your position, whatever comes of this. I will not condemn you for trying to protect my son."
Dom has to fight for breath. "Thank you, my Pharaoh," he manages, his voice unsteady.
"Alright," the Pharaoh says, his tone slipping back into the measured cadence he uses for matters of state. "Before you go, there's something I wanted to discuss from this afternoon's council."
"About Adviser Carter, I presume?" Dom asks.
The Pharaoh smiles. "You know me too well. I want your opinion - without prying ears."
He gestures toward the low table by the window, where another scroll lies open. Dom steps closer, pushing his personal thoughts aside and refocusing on the work at hand.
They speak in low voices for a long while - about Adviser Carter and his unreasonable demands, about border alliances that require a patience neither of them truly has, about which concessions can be made without appearing weak. Dom answers carefully, weighing each possibility before he speaks.
Outside, the light slowly fades. The sun sinks below the horizon, and the room grows dim. By the time they settle on a tentative course, night has fully claimed the palace.
The Pharaoh exhales and rubs at his temples. "We'll revisit this tomorrow. For now, you should rest."
Dom inclines his head. "As you wish, my Pharaoh."
He turns toward the door just as it flies open.
Owen stands there, breathless, his face pale, chest heaving. His eyes dart between Dom and the Pharaoh, wide with alarm.
"My Pharaoh, Vizier, I…" He swallows hard. "I can't find the prince."
Dom's blood runs cold.
The Pharaoh straightens at once. "What do you mean you can't find him?"
"I finished my duties for the night," Owen says quickly, the words tumbling over one another. "I left him to rest, but he said he'd been restless lately, so he asked me to prepare calming oils." His hands clench. "When I came back… the room was empty. It looks like he left on purpose, but he didn't say anything to me."
"On purpose?" Dom asks.
"He took his sandals," Owen says. "And his cloak." He hesitates, then adds, "There was a dagger by his bed. It's… it's gone."
Something tightens painfully in Dom's chest.
The Pharaoh is already moving. "Did you look for him?"
"Yes," Owen says. "The kitchens, the inner corridors - everywhere I'm allowed to go. He's not there."
Why would the prince leave on his own at this time? And why take the dagger?
Dom's thoughts fall into place: duty. Fear. Prayer. And something tied to the gods - and to a certain High Priest.
"We split up," the Pharaoh says. "Owen, alert Guard Captain Deckard. Tell him I want every available guard searching. I'll check the restricted areas of the palace."
Dom is already moving for the door. "I'm going to the temple."
The Pharaoh meets his gaze and understands. "Be careful. And find my son."
Dom doesn't slow. "I will."
They move immediately - Owen following the Pharaoh down one corridor, Dom striding down another, his pace quickening with every step.
:::
The main temple is dark when Dom arrives. He moves quickly through the outer chambers, scanning for any sign of Brian or the priest. A few scribes look up, startled by his pace, but no one tries to stop him.
Near the eastern corridor, a young scribe, Jesse, is gathering his things, clearly about to leave. Dom grabs his shoulder.
"Have you seen the prince?"
Jesse's eyes widen. "Y‑yes. He went into the inner chapel with the High Priest."
Dom doesn't wait to hear anything else. There's no need.
He runs, heart pounding. Brian had been safe only moments ago. Now Dom knows he made a mistake - letting him go, saying nothing, waiting. He should have warned him. He'd thought telling the Pharaoh was enough, that by morning he would be assigned as Brian's guard, that the priest wouldn't dare act under scrutiny.
And now all he can do is blame himself.
He had seen the signs. He had suspected. And he had moved too slowly.
He prays to every god he knows that he isn't already too late.
This time, he doesn't hesitate: he reaches the doors and throws them open.
The third one is the right one. The incense hits him first - thick, cloying, almost suffocating.
Then room comes into focus, and everything drops.
Brian is lying on the ground, unconscious.
Blood streaks his face.
The High Priest stands over him, chanting in the ancient tongue, the words pouring out too fast for Dom to grasp.
He sees the dagger - the one Brian had taken, the one Owen mentioned. It's in Arturo's hand.
There's a circle drawn on the ground, something placed carefully at its center - and when Dom understands what it is, bile rises in his throat.
The High Priest keeps chanting, voice relentless, possessed by it, not even aware of Dom's presence. The dagger lowers toward Brian's face.
Dom doesn't think. He lunges forward and slams into the priest with all his strength, driving him away from Brian.
Arturo staggers back, shock flashing across his face.
Then he sees Dom.
The shock hardens into fury. "You," he snarls. "I knew you'd be a problem. But you will not stand in my way."
The priest swings the dagger toward Dom, the blade catching his cheek. Pain flares - sharp and burning - but it's nothing compared to what Brian must have felt.
Dom grabs Arturo's wrist and twists hard. The priest screams, staggering back, clutching his wrist to his chest. The dagger slips from his grasp and clatters to the floor.
Then he laughs.
It's sharp, broken, unhinged. "You're too late anyway, Vizier!" he spits. "He won't have visions again - and once I'm rid of you, I'll have absolute vision! The gods granted me one of the clearest, most powerful visions ever… and then gave me the perfect giver. Someone whose vision matches mine - perhaps even surpasses it."
His eyes gleam with something wild, triumphant. "It's a sign," he cries. "A sign from the divine! I am the Chosen - the one destined to possess the most perfect, most absolute vision!"
Rage surges through Dom, hot and blinding, his blood roaring in his ears.
He snatches up the dagger.
The High Priest scrambles backward, half‑crawling, eyes gone glassy with madness. "Don't come any closer!" he shrieks. "I am chosen by the gods! Touch me and you'll be cursed - the gods themselves will take vengeance!"
Dom doesn't listen. He doesn't fear the gods' wrath as he closes the distance.
The High Priest screams, trying to shove him away, but Dom is stronger.
Dom strikes without hesitation. The priest staggers. For a second, the room is silent.
"You can't-" he gasps. "I'm the Chosen-"
"You are nothing," Dom says coldly. "And you will end as nothing. I'll make sure of it. No purification. No ceremony. No burial."
Arturo tries to speak again, but the words fail him. His body slackens, and he collapses.
Dom turns away and drops to his knees beside Brian. “My prince...?” His voice cracks despite himself. “Can you hear me? My prince?”
His gaze catches the wound at the side of Brian’s face, and he looks away. His fingers clutch at Brian’s clothes, hard enough to hurt. Brian is still breathing — shallow and uneven — but he’s losing blood.
Dom shifts to lift him.
Footsteps sound behind him.
The Pharaoh and Captain Deckard burst into the room.
The Pharaoh takes in the scene in a single glance - Brian, pale and bloodied; the High Priest lying motionless on the floor.
"Brian!" the Pharaoh cries, rushing toward Dom.
His eyes catch on the damage to Brian's face, and his voice falters. "Is he-?"
"He's breathing, my Pharaoh," Dom says, his voice tight, heavy with failure. "His body probably shut down from the pain. I wasn't fast enough to stop it..." He swallows hard.
The Pharaoh's hand brushes his son's face. His voice is low and final.
"A man who seeks to steal the gods' visions through forbidden rites, who spills royal blood on sacred ground, is denied the afterlife. The high priest has shattered the cosmic order. His soul will be contained, to ensure it can never return. His body will be burned."
Dom nods.
The Pharaoh then looks at both Dom and Deckard. "You will not speak of what happened here today. The fate of the body, and the true cause of death, remain sealed. The public announcement will be neutral."
"Yes, my Pharaoh," Deckard replies, his gaze flicking to the priest's corpse, his disdain barely concealed.
Dom carries Brian to the healing chamber. A physician‑priest is roused from sleep, along with an intendant. The Pharaoh follows and says nothing.
Dom isn't meant to stay, but the Pharaoh does not ask him to leave.
He watches as water washes the blood away. As a poultice of honey and herbs is pressed carefully into the wound. As layers of linen are wrapped around Brian's face.
Time stretches. Long minutes pass before Brian finally stirs.
When he wakes, pain reaches him before memory does - dull, crushing, all‑encompassing. He's disoriented, his face throbbing violently.
When he opens his eyes, he realizes that something is wrong with his sight.
And then the memory comes crashing back.
He remembers the High Priest coming to his room, speaking of a vision - a devastating plague on the horizon, one that would claim more than half the kingdom, including the Pharaoh.
He had said it would require prayers for forgiveness and mercy from the highest seers. Absolute devotion. The intercalary days were a door opened to chaos, and visions of plague during them were not unexpected.
Arturo had placed the bracelet and the amulet on him, calling them symbols of humility - proof to the gods that they always sought guidance, never power. And he had taken the dagger himself.
Brian remembers how afraid he'd been. Afraid for the people. Afraid for his father's life. Too afraid to question what was happening - too afraid to see that something was wrong at all.
He had always trusted the High Priest. When the words had sung through the room, strange and unfamiliar, Brian had assumed they were the old language of the gods - the one used in ancient times, preserved in sacred texts.
Brian closes his remaining eye. He wants to cry, but the urge curdles into shame. He feels too foolish to deserve even that small relief.
Too trusting. Again.
This is the proof he had always feared - the proof that he isn't ready for what awaits him, and never will be. That whatever destiny lies ahead, he is unfit to face it. The gods had warned him, they had given him a black vision - one that foretold blindness waiting for him in the days to come.
The vision hadn't come to pass, but he knows he's lost his divine sight. He knows it because the loss of an eye is the punishment for seers who lied - a severing of their bond with the gods.
No more visions. No more guidance.
What is left of him now, without it?
"My prince?"
Brian opens his eye again, slowly turning his head toward the voice. The movement sends a fresh wave of pain through him, sharper than he feels ready to endure.
Through the blur, he sees his father.
And Dom.
"I'm sorry," Brian whispers. He barely recognizes his own voice.
He's shaking. His father reaches out and rests a hand on the crown of his head, fingers gently combing through his hair, anchoring him.
"Listen to me," the Pharaoh says softly. Brian forces himself to meet his gaze. "You couldn't have known. This is not your fault."
"I should have noticed something was wrong," Brian says, the words spilling out now. "He spoke of a plague, asked me to pray for mercy. But he talked about the gifts, and the language… it wasn't the one we usually use." His breath stutters. "I stayed because I thought he knew better. Because I trusted him. I failed. I-"
The Pharaoh shakes his head. "No. He manipulated you. You were never taught to recognize the rituals, and you trusted the High Priest - as you should have. Even I trusted him." His voice hardens with certainty. "Do not blame yourself. Ever. I was deceived as well. He was the liar. The deceiver."
He turns his gaze briefly toward Dom. "But Dom noticed, and your servant warned us of your disappearance. And because of that, we were able to act in time. Dom is the one who found you and annihilated the threat."
Brian looks to Dom, who has remained silent in the corner of the room. "Thank you," Brian says softly. It's all he has - all he can offer the man who paid for Brian's trust with blood on his hands.
He lifts his hand toward him.
Dom approaches and takes it, holding Brian's hand for a brief moment.
But the words Dom speaks aren't the ones Brian expects.
"I'm sorry, my prince," Dom says, his voice rough. "If I had acted sooner, none of this would have happened. I should have warned you of my suspicions. I hope you can forgive me."
Brian almost laughs - or cries. Maybe both. The feeling lodges painfully in his chest. He wants to break, but he knows he can't.
"What are you saying?" Brian murmurs. "What would even be left of me, without you?"
The black vision answers him well enough.
"Do not speak of what did not happen," the Pharaoh says, his voice unsteady despite the authority in it. "You are safe."
Brian closes his eye.
He is.
Because Dom was there.
:::
It takes Brian days before he can face the people.
They have been told that the gods have called the High Priest - the customary words spoken when someone dies. Nothing more. But the prince's wound is harder to hide.
Brian expects disappointment.
A prince once blessed with visions, now cut off from the gods. He imagines what they will see when they look at him: a powerless, pitiful, one‑eyed Pharaoh in the making. He expects fear to trail him through the crowd, quiet and contagious.
But then he hears the prayers.
Prayers spoken for him - to steady him in his suffering, to ask the gods to watch over his recovery. They rise softly from the crowd, one after another.
They still believe in him.
They believe in the prince standing before them - even when he cannot believe in himself.
And when he turns and sees his father, and Dom beside him, he understands something else.
Even without the gods, he is not alone.
:::
END