Hello everyone!
Sorry for not uploading chapters, but I haven't been feeling completely well this week.
My goal is to upload one chapter from Monday to Friday, meaning 5 chapters a week. If I don't upload for one, two, or three days, I'll try to upload the missing chapters all at once to make up for it, but I will always try to publish 5 chapters a week.
I will also be posting advanced chapters on Patreon. I'll start with 5 advanced chapters, but 7 new chapters will be uploaded weekly. So, if you can't wait, I invite you to support me on Patreon.
Also, please let me know what you think of the fic; I enjoy reading your comments.
That's all for this note. I'll let you enjoy the fic.
Mike
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Chapter 4: The Invitation to the Sanctuary
The return to his family's villa was a silent parade of triumph in Khafre's mind. The desert sun, which usually felt like an oppressive presence, now felt like a spotlight from the gods illuminating his ascent. He had been in the Queen's presence. He had spoken with the Queen Mother. They had not dismissed him; they had noticed him.
"They have noticed me, Lykaon," he muttered to himself that night, as he paced his balcony overlooking the dunes lit by the two moons. "They have recognized my power. It is only the beginning. Soon, all of Egypt will kneel, not before the crown, but before the shadow that eclipses it."
From my invisible prison in his shadow, I watched him. The boy was still a child, intoxicated by the simplest of mortal drugs: ambition. His mind was full of plans for power, of courtly intrigues, of how to use me to climb the hierarchy. He understood nothing.
'They have smelled you,' I thought, the thought a cold whisper in the darkness. 'They have smelled the blood in my jaws and the power clinging to you like cheap perfume. They do not see a king. They see a leash. And they wonder what kind of beast is on the other end.'
My attention was not on Khafre's childish plans. It was on the memory of a scent. The smell of boredom and primordial hunger emanating from the young Queen Opala. It was a scent I knew well. I had smelled it on goddesses, on nymphs, on demon queens throughout the ages. It was the scent of a golden cage, and of a creature inside that longed to be released, even if through destruction.
Three days passed. Three days in which Khafre became increasingly impatient, staring toward the palace road, waiting for the next summons he believed he deserved. His arrogance was almost amusing. Every time a merchant cart or a group of guards passed by, he would stand up straight, expecting them to be for him, only to deflate into silent frustration.
The invitation arrived at sunset on the fourth day. It was not a royal herald with a papyrus and a seal. It was a single slave girl, a young Nubian with frightened eyes and nothing but a simple linen loincloth that barely covered her modesty. She arrived on foot, unescorted, the dust of the road covering her dark, slender legs. She handed Khafre a small tablet of black clay, still slightly damp and perfumed with a heavy lotus oil that was almost suffocating.
There were no words on the tablet. Only a single glyph engraved on its surface: the symbol of the palace's inner sanctuary, a spiral twisting inward, a place spoken of only in whispers, the Queen's private domain. Below, a time: midnight.
Khafre held his breath, his heart pounding with pride. His fingers closed over the cold tablet. A private audience. At midnight. The implication was obvious to his ambitious mind. This was not a matter of state. It was a personal invitation, a test of trust, the next step in his ascent. Perhaps the Queen Mother wanted to discuss an alliance, or the Queen herself sought a confidant.
'Idiot,' I thought, the word a dull thud in the darkness. 'This is not a conversation. It is an evaluation. And it is not you they want to evaluate.'
That night, Khafre prepared as if for battle. He bathed in perfumed milk, anointed himself with the most expensive oils, and dressed in the finest linen tunic, embroidered with gold thread. He was a peacock preparing for a parade, oblivious to the fact that he was preparing to be the bait.
Shortly before midnight, he departed. He moved through the silent streets of Thebes, a solitary figure wrapped in confidence. I followed him, a shadow within his shadow, my own anticipation growing. This palace, this nest of debauchery, was a hunting ground I yearned to explore.
The palace guards awaited him. They did not take him to the throne room, as he expected. Instead, they guided him through back corridors, along dark hallways lit only by flickering torches that cast dancing shadows on the walls. The air here was different. The smell of incense and perfume was stronger, but it was mixed with something else, something raw and animal. The smell of sweat, bodily fluids, and exotic beasts. It was the smell of a combined zoo and brothel.
Finally, they reached a section of the palace Khafre had never seen. The stone walls were bare, unadorned, and the floor was packed earth. They led him to a heavy bronze door, flanked by two massive eunuchs with curved scimitars.
"The Queen awaits," one of the eunuchs said, his voice an emotionless murmur.
The door opened with a deep groan, revealing not an opulent hall, but almost total darkness. A descending corridor, damp and cold. Khafre hesitated for the first time, a pang of uncertainty piercing his arrogance. This was not an audience hall. This was a dungeon. Or worse.
"Go ahead," the eunuche insisted.
Khafre took a deep breath and entered. The bronze door closed behind him with a final clang, plunging him into blackness. For a moment, there was only silence and darkness. Then, the torches along the corridor lit up on their own, one after another, revealing a stone tunnel that sank into the bowels of the palace.
At the end of the corridor, there was another door, this one of dark wood reinforced with iron. There were no guards. There was no handle. Khafre approached, and as he did, the door opened by itself, revealing the chamber beyond.
'The sanctuary,' I thought, feeling the surge of power and lust emanating from within. 'The cage of beasts.'
Khafre stopped at the threshold, his face a mask of astonishment and growing apprehension. And I, from the safety of his shadow, watched, my hunger finally awakening from its long slumber. The true invitation had been answered.