The sun over Egypt does not warm the poor. It only burns us.
For seven long years, I hid my little boy, Kem, in the deepest, darkest corners of the pottery slums near the Nile River. I covered his face with soot. I clothed his small body in the coarsest, ugliest rags I could find. I begged him never, ever to laugh too loudly, never to stand too tall, and never to lift his eyes when the glittering chariots of the royal city thundered past our mud-brick hut.
“Stay small, my sweet boy,” I would whisper into his hair every single night, holding him tight against my chest as the cold desert wind howled through the cracks in our walls. “In this world, to be seen by the powerful is to die.”
But a mother’s love, no matter how fierce, cannot always protect her child from the cruelty of evil men.
It happened on the hottest day of the dry season. The air was thick with dust, and the Nile had receded to a narrow ribbon of brown water. Kem had gone to the riverbank with a broken clay jar, hoping to scoop up a few drops of water to cool my burning fever. I was lying on our sleeping mat, drifting into unconsciousness, when I heard the scream.
It was a sound that tore right through my soul. A child’s scream. My child’s scream.
Fear gave my weak limbs a sudden, desperate strength. I stumbled out of the hut, my feet burning on the scorching sand, running blindly toward the crowded marketplace near the grand stone arches of the city gates.
A massive crowd had already gathered in a tight, fearful circle. The heavy thud of bronze-tipped spears echoed against the stone walls. Royal guards, dressed in polished leather armor and carrying long whips, were pushing the poor townspeople back, treating them like cattle.
And there, in the center of the dust, was my seven-year-old boy.
He was trembling, on his knees, his small hands clutching his bruised stomach. Standing over him was Lord Horemheb, the Pharaoh’s high overseer of the royal quarries. Horemheb was a man known throughout the kingdom for his absolute ruthlessness. He wore a heavy linen kilt embroidered with pure gold thread, and thick, glittering bands of bronze and turquoise wrapped around his thick arms. His face was twisted into a mask of pure disgust as he looked down at my son.
“Filthy little street rat!” Horemheb bellowed, his voice booming over the silent crowd. “You dare to step into the path of my golden chariot? You dare to defile the sacred symbols painted on my wheels with your muddy hands?”
“Please, my lord!” Kem sobbed, tears cutting bright tracks through the dirt on his tiny face. “I only tripped! The sun was in my eyes… I did not mean to touch your chariot! I was just getting water for my mother!”
“Silence!” Horemheb roared. Without a shred of mercy, he raised his heavy, ring-covered hand and delivered a brutal, backhanded slap across my son’s face.
The force of the blow lifted Kem off the ground and threw him sideways into the dirt. A sharp cry of agony escaped his lips as a thin line of bright red blood began to trickle from his mouth.
“No! Stop! Please, spare my son!” I screamed, throwing myself through the line of guards. I didn’t care about their spears. I didn’t care about the whips. I threw my body over Kem, wrapping my arms around him, using my own back as a shield.
“Ah, the mother of the vermin,” Horemheb sneered, looking down at me as if I were a venomous insect. He kicked a spray of hot sand directly into my face. “You have raised a creature that does not know its place, woman. In the name of the High Pharaoh, all disruptions to the royal peace must be cleansed. Guards! Drag them both to the Great Desert Arena. Today, the Pharaoh sits in the high box to watch the games. Let this garbage provide some entertainment for the court.”
The crowd gasped. The desert arena was a place of death. It was where the lowest criminals, rebels, and prisoners of war were thrown into deep stone pits to be torn apart by the savage, starved beasts kept by the royal huntsmen. No one ever survived.
“Please, Lord Horemheb! Take my life instead!” I begged, pressing my forehead into the burning dirt at his feet, kissing the leather of his sandals. “He is just a child! He is only seven years old! He knows nothing of the world! Punish me, kill me, but let my boy go!”
Horemheb merely laughed, a cold, hollow sound that made my blood run cold. “The law of Egypt is absolute, beggar. Take them away!”
The heavy hands of the royal guards seized my hair and arms, tearing me away from my screaming son. They dragged us through the stone streets, our skin scraping against the rough gravel, while the crowd watched in terrified silence. No one dared to speak up against the tyrant official. To question Horemheb was to question the throne itself.
An hour later, we were thrown into the blinding light of the Great Desert Arena.
The heat inside the massive sandstone structure was suffocating. High above us, sitting in shaded galleries lined with white silk and golden banners, were the wealthy nobles of Egypt. They wore beautiful white linens, drank cool wine from silver cups, and laughed merrily, completely indifferent to the human misery taking place on the sand below.
And there, sitting upon the highest golden throne, shielded by giant ostrich-feather fans, was the Pharaoh himself. He looked distant, his face a stern, unreadable mask of royalty, worn down by years of ruling a vast kingdom.
In the center of the arena floor was the Pit. It was a massive, circular depression cut deep into the solid bedrock, surrounded by a low stone wall. From the dark depths of that pit came a sound that made every muscle in my body freeze in primal terror.
It was a deep, guttural roar—a savage, echoing growl that belonged to a monster. It was the giant, three-headed hound of the southern desert, a beast captured from the wild borders of Nubia, kept starved and maddened for the sole purpose of public executions.
Lord Horemheb walked up the steps to the Pharaoh’s royal box, bowing deeply before the throne.
“Great Living God, Lord of the Two Lands,” Horemheb announced, his voice echoing off the sandstone walls so the entire crowd could hear. “Today, I bring before you a dangerous seed of rebellion. This street rat and his mother publicly assaulted a royal chariot and insulted the sacred laws of your court. To ensure the absolute fear and obedience of the lower classes, I request they be cast into the pit immediately!”
The Pharaoh gave a brief, careless nod of his hand. He didn’t even look down at us. To him, we were just two more nameless, faceless beggars in a sea of millions.
“No! Please! Your Majesty!” I screamed toward the sky, my voice cracking with desperation. “Look at him! He is just a baby! Have mercy!”
The guards ignored my cries. Two large men grabbed Kem by his small arms, lifting him into the air, and carried him toward the edge of the pit. The savage beast below smelled the approach of prey and began to launch itself against its heavy bronze chains, the metal links clanking violently against the stone.
Kem fought with all his might, crying out for me, his little legs kicking wildly. In the violent struggle, one of the guards brutally yanked on the boy’s collar, completely ripping away the sleeve of his coarse linen shirt, exposing his bare neck and right shoulder to the harsh, glaring sunlight.
The guard raised his hand to slap the boy again, to force him over the edge—
“STOP!”
A voice like thunder suddenly crashed down from the royal box.
It wasn’t the voice of a guard. It wasn’t the voice of Horemheb. It was the voice of the Pharaoh.
The entire arena went dead silent. The guard froze, his hand suspended in mid-air just inches from Kem’s face.
The Pharaoh had stood up from his golden throne. His crown was slightly askew, his royal scepter slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the stone floor. His face, which had been so cold and distant just a moment before, was now twisted in a look of profound, agonizing grief. His eyes were wide, staring with a fierce, terrified intensity at my son’s exposed shoulder.
“Bring that child closer,” the Pharaoh whispered, his voice trembling so violently that even the nobles in the lower tiers could hear it. “Bring him to the steps of the throne. Now!”
I know you’re curious about what happens next—Read the full story in the comments.
CHAPTER 1
The sun over Egypt does not warm the poor. It only burns us.
For seven long years, I hid my little boy, Kem, in the deepest, darkest corners of the pottery slums near the Nile River. I covered his beautiful, soft face with dark charcoal soot every single morning. I clothed his small, fragile body in the coarsest, ugliest burlap rags I could find in the garbage heaps. I begged him, with tears in my eyes, never, ever to laugh too loudly when the other children played, never to stand too tall when the tax collectors rode past, and never to lift his eyes when the glittering, bronze-plated chariots of the royal city thundered through our dusty streets.
“Stay small, my sweet boy,” I would whisper into his dark hair every single night, holding him so tight against my chest that I could feel the rapid, innocent beat of his heart. I would hold him while the cold desert wind howled through the cracks of our crumbling mud-brick hut, praying to the gods that the world would pass us by. “In this cruel world, to be seen by the powerful is to die. We must remain invisible.”
But a mother’s love, no matter how fierce, no matter how desperate, cannot always protect her child from the vicious cruelty of evil men who think they own the earth.
It happened on the hottest day of the dry season, a day when the very air felt like breathing liquid fire. The atmosphere was thick with choking dust, and the mighty Nile had receded to a narrow, sluggish ribbon of muddy brown water. I was struck down by a sudden, terrible desert fever. My skin was burning, and my mind was drifting into a dark unconsciousness. Kem, seeing his mother shivering and crying out in pain, took a broken, leaky clay jar. He ran out into the blazing heat, determined to reach the riverbank to scoop up a few drops of water to cool my burning forehead.
I was lying on our tattered reed mat, trapped in a nightmare, when a sound tore through the heavy air and pulled me back to reality.
It was a sound that ripped right through my soul. A sharp, terrified child’s scream. My child’s scream.
Fear gave my weak, fever-ravaged limbs a sudden, desperate strength. I stumbled blindly out of the hut, my bare feet burning instantly on the scorching sand. I ran, driven by pure maternal instinct, toward the crowded marketplace near the grand, towering stone arches of the city gates.
A massive crowd of hundreds of poor townspeople had already gathered in a tight, fearful circle. The heavy, rhythmic thud of bronze-tipped spears echoed ominous warnings against the stone walls. Royal guards, dressed in polished leather armor and carrying long, braided leather whips, were violently pushing the townspeople back, treating them like worthless cattle.
And there, in the very center of the swirling dust, was my seven-year-old boy.
He was trembling violently, brought down to his knees, his small hands clutching his bruised stomach. Standing over him like a merciless god was Lord Horemheb, the Pharaoh’s high overseer of the royal quarries. Horemheb was a man whose very name caused grown men to weep. He was known throughout the kingdom for his absolute, unyielding ruthlessness. Today, he wore a heavy linen kilt embroidered with threads of pure, shimmering gold, and thick, glittering bands of heavy bronze and turquoise wrapped around his thick, muscular arms. His arrogant face was twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated disgust as he looked down at my boy.
“Filthy little street rat!” Horemheb bellowed, his voice booming over the silent, terrified crowd. “You dare to step into the path of my golden chariot? You dare to defile the sacred symbols of the sun god painted on my wheels with your muddy, worthless hands?”
“Please, my lord!” Kem sobbed, large tears cutting bright, clean tracks through the thick layer of soot on his tiny face. “I only tripped! The blinding sun was in my eyes… I did not mean to touch your beautiful chariot! I was just trying to get water for my sick mother! Please!”
“Silence, vermin!” Horemheb roared.
Without a single shred of human mercy, the powerful official raised his heavy, ring-covered hand and delivered a brutal, backhanded slap directly across my son’s face.
The sheer force of the blow lifted Kem completely off the ground and threw him sideways into the hard dirt. A sharp, agonizing cry of pain escaped his tiny lips as a thin line of bright red blood began to trickle from his split lip, staining the dust beneath him.
“No! Stop! Please, spare my son!” I screamed, a primal, feral cry ripping from my throat as I threw myself through the line of guards.
I didn’t care about their sharp bronze spears. I didn’t care about the heavy whips that grazed my shoulders. I threw my fragile body directly over Kem, wrapping my arms completely around him, using my own back as a human shield to protect him from further harm.
“Ah, look what we have here. The pathetic mother of the vermin,” Horemheb sneered, leaning over and looking down at me as if I were a venomous insect crawling in the mud. With a cruel flick of his foot, he kicked a spray of hot, stinging sand directly into my eyes and face. “You have raised a creature that does not know its proper place in the dust, woman. In the name of the High Pharaoh, all disruptions to the royal peace must be cleansed from our sight. Guards! Drag them both to the Great Desert Arena immediately. Today, the Pharaoh sits in the high box to watch the games. Let this human garbage provide some brief entertainment for the court before they are discarded.”
The crowd gathered around us collectively gasped. A heavy, suffocating wave of horror washed over the marketplace. The desert arena was not a place of fair games—it was a place of public slaughter. It was where the lowest criminals, political rebels, and helpless slaves were thrown into deep, inescapable stone pits to be torn limb from limb by the savage, starved beasts kept by the royal huntsmen. No one—man, woman, or child—had ever survived its depths.
“Please, Lord Horemheb! I beg of you! Take my life instead!” I cried out, pressing my forehead deep into the burning dirt at his feet, desperately kissing the black leather of his expensive sandals. “He is just a child! He is only seven years old! He knows nothing of the world, nothing of laws! Punish me, torture me, kill me, but I beg you, let my innocent boy go!”
Horemheb merely laughed, a cold, hollow, echoing sound that made my very blood run cold. “The law of Egypt is absolute for beggars, woman. Take them away!”
The heavy, callous hands of the royal guards seized my hair and pulled me backward, tearing me away from my screaming son. They dragged us roughly through the stone-paved streets, our skin scraping against the sharp gravel, leaving a trail of blood behind us, while the crowd watched in terrified, helpless silence. No one dared to speak up against the tyrant official. To question Horemheb was to question the authority of the throne itself.
An hour later, after being thrown into a dark, suffocating holding cell, the heavy wooden doors were flung open, and we were shoved out into the blinding, white-hot light of the Great Desert Arena.
The heat inside the massive, circular sandstone structure was absolutely suffocating. High above the sandy floor, sitting in shaded galleries lined with expensive white silk, heavy linen curtains, and golden banners, were the wealthy nobles of Egypt. They wore beautiful, pristine white garments, drank cool, spiced wine from heavy silver cups, and laughed merrily with one another, completely indifferent to the human misery taking place on the scorching sand below.
And there, sitting upon the highest golden throne, shielded from the harsh sun by giant, swaying ostrich-feather fans held by silent slaves, was the Pharaoh himself. He looked incredibly distant, his face a stern, unreadable mask of absolute royalty, hardened by years of ruling a vast, unforgiving kingdom.
In the exact center of the arena floor was the Pit. It was a massive, circular depression cut deep into the solid bedrock of the desert, surrounded by a low, smooth stone wall. From the dark, shadowy depths of that pit came a sound that made every single muscle in my body freeze in primal, icy terror.
It was a deep, guttural roar—a savage, echoing growl that could only belong to a monster. It was the giant, three-headed hound of the southern desert, a mythical and terrifying beast captured from the wild, uncharted borders of Nubia. The royal huntsmen kept it constantly starved, trapped in total darkness, and deliberately maddened for the sole purpose of executing those who angered the state.
Lord Horemheb walked confidently up the stone steps toward the Pharaoh’s royal box, bowing deeply, his golden jewelry clinking musically.
“Great Living God, Lord of the Two Lands,” Horemheb announced, his arrogant voice echoing perfectly off the high sandstone walls so that every single person in the crowd could hear him. “Today, I bring before your divine presence a dangerous seed of rebellion. This filthy street rat and his mother publicly assaulted a royal chariot, damaged sacred symbols, and insulted the laws of your court. To ensure absolute fear, respect, and obedience among the lower classes, I request they be cast into the pit of the beast immediately!”
The Pharaoh gave a brief, careless, almost bored nod of his hand. He didn’t even deign to look down at us. To him, we were just two more nameless, faceless beggars in a sea of millions of subjects.
“No! Please! Your Majesty! Have mercy!” I screamed upward toward the sky, my voice cracking and breaking with pure desperation. “Look at him! He is just a baby! He is an innocent child!”
The guards completely ignored my cries. Two large, muscular men grabbed Kem by his small arms, lifting him high into the air, and carried him directly toward the edge of the deep stone pit. The savage beast below smelled the sudden approach of fresh prey. It began to launch its massive weight violently against its heavy bronze chains, the metal links clanking and rattling furiously against the stone walls of the pit.
Kem fought with every ounce of strength his tiny body possessed, crying out for me, his little legs kicking wildly in the air. In the violent, clumsy struggle to force him over the edge, one of the guards brutally yanked on the boy’s collar, completely ripping away the sleeve of his coarse linen shirt. The fabric tore away, exposing his bare neck and his entire right shoulder to the harsh, glaring sunlight.
The guard raised his heavy hand to slap the boy again, to finally force him over the edge into the darkness—
“STOP!”
A voice like a sudden crack of thunder violently crashed down from the royal box.
It wasn’t the voice of an ordinary guard. It wasn’t the voice of the smug Horemheb. It was the voice of the Pharaoh himself.
The entire massive arena went dead, terrifyingly silent. The guard froze instantly, his heavy hand suspended in mid-air just mere inches from Kem’s terrified face.
The Pharaoh had stood completely up from his golden throne. His heavy ceremonial crown was slightly askew on his head, and his royal scepter had slipped entirely from his fingers, clattering loudly against the stone floor of the balcony. His face, which had been so cold, bored, and distant just a single moment before, was now violently twisted in a look of profound, agonizing grief and utter disbelief. His eyes were wide, staring with a fierce, terrified, and burning intensity at my son’s exposed right shoulder.
For there, stamped clearly onto the skin of my son’s shoulder, was a birthmark unlike any other—a perfectly formed, dark silhouette of the sacred royal falcon, the exact mark that appeared only on those born of the pure, direct bloodline of the founding Pharaohs.
“Bring that child closer,” the Pharaoh whispered, his voice trembling so violently that even the trembling nobles in the lower tiers could hear the sudden terror in it. “Bring him to the very steps of my throne. Now!”
CHAPTER 2
The heavy silence that blanketed the Great Desert Arena was thicker than a dust storm. Thousands of spectators, from the wealthiest lords to the lowliest guards, held their collective breath. No one moved. No one dared to even whisper. The only sound that broke the eerie quiet was the distant, frustrated growling of the beast trapped beneath the stone floor, its prey suddenly delayed.
Lord Horemheb’s smug, arrogant smile completely vanished from his face. His pale eyes darted rapidly from the standing Pharaoh down to my trembling son, and then back up to the royal box. A sudden, tense droplet of sweat broke out on the official’s forehead, glistening under the harsh Egyptian sun.
“Great Pharaoh,” Horemheb said, his voice losing a fraction of its booming confidence as he stepped closer to the throne, bowing frantically. “Surely you do not wish to delay the justice of the court for a worthless slum child. He is dirty, he is diseased, he is a common criminal. Letting him stand near your divine presence is a sacrilege to the gods.”
The Pharaoh did not look at Horemheb. He did not acknowledge his highest official at all. His eyes remained locked onto Kem’s shoulder, his breathing heavy and ragged, as if he were looking at a ghost that had just risen from the desert sands.
“Silence, Horemheb,” the Pharaoh commanded, his voice low, sharp, and dripping with a cold authority that made the official instantly drop to his knees in fear. “Guards, did you not hear the word of your King? Bring the boy to me.”
The two muscular guards who had been ready to throw my son into the jaws of the monster now looked terrified. They gently, almost reverently, set Kem down onto the hot sand. They no longer gripped him roughly; instead, they guided him with trembling hands toward the grand stone staircase that led up to the Pharaoh’s elevated royal balcony.
“Kem!” I cried out, trying to move toward him, but a guard quickly held me back, though far less brutally than before. The entire atmosphere of the arena had shifted in an instant. The power dynamic was warping, and everyone could feel it.
Kem walked up the massive sandstone steps all alone. His small, bare feet left dusty prints on the smooth, polished stone. He was shivering despite the intense heat, his little hands clutching his torn shirt over his chest, trying to hide the birthmark that had caused such a sudden storm. He looked so incredibly small against the towering statues of the gods that lined the walkway.
As my son reached the top of the stairs, the Pharaoh stepped away from his golden canopy. He walked past his guards, past the beautiful Queen who watched with wide, curious eyes, and knelt down directly onto the stone floor.
A collective gasp echoed through the galleries. The Living God of Egypt, the master of the Nile, was kneeling before a child dressed in beggar’s rags.
The Pharaoh reached out a trembling hand. His long, golden fingers, adorned with the sacred scarab rings of the dynasty, hovered just above Kem’s right shoulder. He gently pushed aside the remaining torn fabric of the rough shirt.
There it was, fully revealed in the bright, unforgiving light of the noon sun: the dark, perfect birthmark of the sacred royal falcon. But it wasn’t just the birthmark that made the Pharaoh’s breath catch in his throat. Right beneath the mark was a thin, silver scar in the shape of a crescent moon—the result of a childhood accident involving a royal hunting dagger.
The Pharaoh’s face softened completely, the hard lines of rulership melting away into pure, unadulterated grief. Tears, bright and heavy, filled the eyes of the king.
“It cannot be,” the Pharaoh whispered, his voice cracking with a pain that had clearly been buried deep within his heart for many years. He looked into Kem’s eyes, searching the boy’s face, looking past the dark charcoal soot and the dirt. “Those eyes… you have the exact eyes of my brother.”
High official Horemheb crept forward on his hands and knees, his face pale as death, desperation clawing at his throat. “Your Majesty! This is a trick! A deception arranged by foreign spies or sorcerers! The great Prince Prince Ra-Hotep, your beloved younger brother, perished in the Great Fire of the Western Palace seven years ago! His entire household was reduced to ashes! This boy is nothing but an imposter wearing a curse of the flesh!”
Hearing those words, something snapped inside me. The memories of that terrible, fiery night rushed back into my mind, burning hotter than the desert sun. I broke free from the guard holding me and ran to the base of the royal steps, throwing my hands toward the sky.
“He is no imposter, Lord Horemheb!” I screamed, my voice ringing out like a clarion bell across the silent arena. “You know he is no imposter, because you are the one who set the fire!”
The crowd erupted into a chaotic frenzy of whispers. The nobles leaned over the balconies, stunned by the gravity of the accusation. Horemheb turned around, his eyes wild with a murderous rage, pointing a shaking finger down at me.
“Blasphemy! Cut out her tongue! Kill her where she stands!” Horemheb shrieked, looking at the guards. But the guards did not move. They stood like statues, waiting only for the Pharaoh’s command.
The Pharaoh slowly stood up from his knees, his grief suddenly hardening into a terrifying, icy rage. He turned his gaze away from my son and looked down at me, standing at the bottom of the steps.
“Who are you, woman?” the Pharaoh demanded, his voice echoing with absolute authority. “And what knowledge do you possess of the night my brother’s palace burned?”
I wiped the sweat and dust from my face, standing as tall as my weary body would allow. I looked directly into the eyes of the king, the man I had avoided for seven long years out of fear for our lives.
“Great Pharaoh, look at my face,” I said, my voice steady despite the terror pounding in my chest. “Seven years ago, I was not a beggar in the mud. My name is Asenath. I was the head royal nurse to your brother’s infant son. I was the one who swore an oath to protect the royal bloodline with my very life.”
The Pharaoh’s eyes widened slightly as he recognized my face beneath the years of poverty and sorrow. “Asenath… you survived?”
“I survived, Your Majesty, and so did the child,” I said, pointing a finger directly at the trembling Lord Horemheb. “On that terrible night, I saw this traitor’s men pour the sacred oils around the prince’s bedchambers. I saw them light the torches. They were ordered to erase your brother’s bloodline so that Horemheb could claim the western territories for himself. I managed to pull the infant prince from the flames, wrapping him in my own cloak. I fled into the slums, changing his name, covering his skin with soot, and raising him as a beggar just to keep him safe from this monster’s assassins!”
“Lies! All lies of a madwoman!” Horemheb roared, his voice cracking with panic. He turned back to the Pharaoh, grabbing the edge of the king’s golden robe. “My Lord, do not listen to this garbage! She is trying to save her criminal son from the pit! Order the guards to throw them to the beast!”
The Pharaoh slowly looked down at Horemheb’s hand clutching his robe. The look in the king’s eyes was so terrifyingly cold that Horemheb instantly let go, trembling violently, realizing he had crossed a dangerous line.
The Pharaoh turned back to my son, Kem. The boy was looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes, completely unaware of the massive political storm swirling around him. The king reached into his outer robe and pulled out a small, golden object attached to a leather cord. It was a royal whistle, a childhood toy that had belonged to his late brother.
The Pharaoh placed the whistle to his lips and blew a soft, specific melody—a three-note tune that the royal family used to call one another during their childhood games in the palace gardens.
The moment the notes drifted through the hot arena air, Kem froze. A strange look of sudden recognition passed over his little face. Without a single moment of hesitation, his small voice lifted up, and he sang the exact concluding notes of the ancient royal lullaby, a melody I had never taught him, but one that had been etched into his soul before the fire.
The entire court went completely numb with shock. The proof was absolute.
The Pharaoh dropped to his knees once more, pulling my son into a tight, fiercely protective embrace, burying his face in the boy’s dusty hair as deep, heavy sobs shook the monarch’s powerful frame.
“My brother’s son,” the Pharaoh wept openly, before the thousands of gathered citizens of Egypt. “My beautiful, lost nephew. You are alive.”
Horemheb saw the embrace, and he knew his doom had arrived. Realizing his lies could no longer save him, the official’s face twisted into an expression of desperate, feral malice. He reached into the heavy folds of his golden kilt and pulled out a concealed, glittering bronze dagger.
With a crazed scream of pure desperation, Horemheb lunged forward toward the kneeling Pharaoh and the helpless child, his blade raised high in the air, determined to finish the job he had started seven years ago.
