The sun had barely risen, casting soft gold across the bloodied dunes as the battlefield began to quiet. Only the murmurs of the wounded, the calls of commanders issuing orders for cleanup, and the rustle of desert winds filled the silence left by war. Victory had been won — but at a steep cost.
Ramose stood atop the ridge overlooking what remained of the camp. His armor was dented, his tunic soaked in blood — both his and that of others. Around him, soldiers moved with weary determination, rebuilding what had been torn apart in the surprise attack.
He should have felt triumph. Instead, there was only a lingering hollowness.
Thutmose was speaking with his captains at the base of the ridge, issuing commands with effortless authority. Ramose watched his half-brother with a complex mixture of admiration, gratitude — and envy. Thutmose had always been the golden son, the natural leader, the one the gods seemed to favor with perfect timing.
Ramose clenched his fists. He hated that part of himself — the shadowed thought that whispered: You needed him to survive.
Just days ago, he'd believed he was ready to command. That he could win loyalty on his own. That his victories would speak for themselves. But now, Thutmose's dramatic arrival had cast him once again in the role of "lesser prince." A brother in the backdrop of Egypt's shining heir.
Ramose turned away from the ridge and made his way to his tent. He needed a moment alone — to think, to breathe.
Inside, he peeled off his armor and stared at his reflection in a bronze mirror. His face was worn, lined with exhaustion and smeared with ash. A faint bruise colored his jaw, and his eyes — dark and restless — told a story of near-death, of narrow escape.
He sat down, pulled out a scroll, and unsealed the wax. It was from the palace — a coded message from his mother's steward. He read it quickly, heart thumping:
"The Queen Regent grows impatient. The Council of Nobles leans further toward Thutmose. Your victory must be yours alone, or not at all. Return swiftly, and make your claim."
Ramose crushed the scroll in his hand, rage pulsing through him. Politics had always been a game played with poison and silk. Even on the brink of death, they whispered of inheritance, alliances, and power.
There was a knock on the wooden pole of the tent. Ramose looked up.
Thutmose entered, a pitcher of wine in one hand. "You look like death."
"I came close," Ramose replied, not rising. "Thanks to your dramatic entrance."
Thutmose chuckled and set the wine down between them. "You held your own until I arrived. I'm not here to take credit."
"No?" Ramose asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because the nobles will. The scribes will. They'll call it Thutmose's rescue."
Thutmose's smile faded slightly. "I didn't come here to steal your glory. I came because I heard the eastern rebels were regrouping. Our enemies don't wait for politics to settle."
"But politics always finds its way back to the battlefield," Ramose said bitterly.
Silence fell between them.
Thutmose poured two cups of wine. "We won. That's what matters."
Ramose took the cup, staring into the rippling surface of the drink. "I wonder how many more victories like this Egypt can afford."
Thutmose studied him carefully. "You've changed, Ramose. You're thinking like a ruler."
Ramose looked up sharply. "And you think like a soldier."
The unspoken tension hung heavy. Both brothers knew what was at stake. The Pharaoh's health was failing. Succession loomed like a storm. Every victory, every alliance, every whisper from the nobles mattered.
"I'm returning to Waset tomorrow," Thutmose said finally. "The council will want answers. They'll want to know how the rebels were able to organize so quickly."
Ramose nodded. "Go. I'll remain a few more days. See to the wounded. Finish what we started."
Thutmose hesitated, then stood. "Be careful, brother. The war may be ending, but the real battle's only beginning."
Once Thutmose left, Ramose sat in silence, his thoughts turning to Naiya.
He hadn't heard from her in weeks. The last message had been a simple scroll, expressing hope for his safety. But he remembered her voice, her calm observations, her ability to see past his title into his core. With her, he wasn't "Prince Ramose." He was simply… Ramose.
He needed that.
That night, as the campfires dimmed and the wind howled over the dunes, Ramose penned a new letter to Naiya.
"The stars seem dimmer now, though I have survived another battle. I wonder, do you still trace the constellations in the sky like you did from the garden wall? There are moments I wish I could talk to you again — not as a prince or a commander, but as a man struggling to understand his place in a world built on blood and shadows. I hope you are well. I hope I can see you soon."
He sealed the letter with wax, pressing his signet into it.
A campaign had ended, but something darker had begun. Not on the battlefield — but in the court, in the palace, and within his own conflicted heart.