The Pharaoh’s Favorite novel Chapter 9

Power thrummed through my veins as I met Amen’s challenge.

“Bring me a knife,” I commanded, shocked by my own boldness.

His laugh echoed in the night air, rich and carefree, as he turned to retrieve an ornate sword from the wall. With a boyish excitement, he almost leaped into motion, his long, loose black hair swaying with each step.

He moved with an energy that made him seem younger, almost like a child about to ride a horse for the first time. I couldn’t suppress the small smile that tugged at my lips as she watched him, the sight a stark contrast to the composed Pharaoh I’d expected.

The sight disarmed me, and for the first time that evening, I felt a fleeting sense of ease. He reached the wall and pulled the sword free with a flourish, its jeweled hilt catching the moonlight like trapped stars.

Turning back to me, he presented the weapon with a theatrical bow, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief.

“A gift from the Hittite ambassador,” he declared, his tone mockingly grand. “Though I doubt this was the use he intended.”

I bit back a laugh, his infectious energy momentarily chasing away the tension that had wrapped itself around me all night.

For a man who wielded power over an entire kingdom and a living god among men, Amen seemed unexpectedly… human.

The blade’s weight settled in my palm, cold and certain.

“Hold out your hand,” I said, my voice steady despite the bit of tremor in my chest.

Amen extended his hand without hesitation, the golden ring on his finger catching the light. The confidence in his gesture only made my own uncertainty more glaring.

I murmured a prayer to Isis under my breath and drew a shallow cut across his fingertip. The bead of blood that welled up seemed unnaturally vivid against his bronzed skin.

“You didn’t even flinch,” I said, surprised.

“I’ve faced worse,” he replied smoothly, a hint of amusement in his voice. His dark eyes held mine, steady and unyielding.

Ancient words spilled from my lips, darker than prayer, older than empire. Without breaking his gaze, I slowly brought his bleeding finger to my mouth.

The taste of royal blood exploded on my tongue – copper and power and something else, something divine. His eyes darkened with a hunger that had nothing to do with magic.

Then it came – a flood of whispers, faint at first but growing louder, threading through my mind like a thousand silken threads.

My vision blurred, replaced by flashes of light and shadow. Images surged forward – a serpent coiled around the sun, shadows chasing a golden glow, the gods standing silent and watchful.

“You got two questions,” I whispered, the power of Isis surging through me like wine. “Choose wisely.”

His first question cut through the haze, precise as a blade: