The Pharaoh’s Favorite novel Chapter 58

I watched as a young Amen crouched over a boy’s motionless body—his small hands gripping the boy’s shoulders, shaking him desperately, begging him to wake up.

But the boy did not move.

His skin was ashen, his lips blue. His lifeless eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. And then, the realization dawned on the young prince.

His hands—his touch—had done this.

In a single moment, without intent, without meaning to, he had stolen the boy’s life. A cry tore from his throat—raw, devastated.

The scene changed. He was older now, but still so young.

Haunted.

His hands trembled as he wrapped them around himself, his breath ragged as whispers—distant, ghostly, unrelenting—filled the air.

They slithered into his ears, twisting around him like unseen specters.

“Cursed boy.”
“Murderer.”
“Tainted by the dead.”
“You are nothing but a vessel for Osiris.”
“Not a Pharaoh. Not a man. Just a husk.”

I watched as Amen clenched his jaw, his hands pressed to his ears, his body shaking violently. But the whispers did not stop.

The more he resisted, the louder they became—an endless chorus of torment that only he could hear.

Then—everything around him withered.

The vibrant green plants that once lined the chamber shriveled in an instant, turning to ash. The air grew cold, heavy, filled with the scent of decay.

The pain inside him had leaked into the world.

And I felt it. I felt his suffering. His torment. His unbearable solitude.

I tried to reach out, to touch his shoulder, to tell him he wasn’t alone—But then—The world shattered.

I woke with a gasp, my chest rising and falling rapidly, the sensation of Amen’s pain still thick in my lungs.

And then I realized—I was not alone. Amen’s breathing was just as uneven as mine. His body, tense. His bronze skin, damp with sweat. His dark eyes—wide, alert—locked onto mine.

A single moment passed.

Silence. Understanding. Realization.

We had seen the same dream.

No. Not a dream. A memory.

Amen let out a slow breath, running a hand over his face. “You were there,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “Inside my dream.”

I swallowed, my throat dry. “It wasn’t just a dream. It was real, wasn’t it? That was your past.”

He nodded once, solemnly.

Something stirred in my chest—a deep ache, a sorrow that did not belong to me, yet felt as though it were my own.

I reached out, my fingers brushing against his jaw, tracing the sharp planes of his face.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “For everything you had to endure. For all the pain.”

But Amen shook his head. His voice was quiet, but firm.

“Since you first shared your blood with me,” he confessed, “since you practiced oneiromancy for the first time—everything has changed.”

I swallowed, my pulse quickening.

“The curse no longer torments me as it once did.” His voice was calm, measured. “There have been no violent episodes. My strength has grown. My life energy has stabilized.”

He exhaled softly, shaking his head, almost as if he could not believe his own words.

“For the first time…” His eyes met mine, something raw and vulnerable in his gaze. “There has been no need for another ritual.”

I froze. The realization crashed into me. No more rituals. No more desperate attempts to keep his power from consuming him.

Because of me.

I wanted ruin.