The next morning, the palace hummed with the rhythm of war. Servants rushed through corridors, hauling baskets of provisions, sharpening blades, rolling up papyrus scrolls filled with tactical orders.
The distant clatter of hooves echoed from the courtyards as horses were saddled and chariots readied.
Amen stood in the training yard, dressed in light armor befitting a prince. Bronze scales over linen, a sword strapped to his waist. It felt strange, weighty, but empowering.
"You must learn to wear it as skin," his father said, approaching from behind the ceiling-high shelf filled with scrolls.
Amen turned. The Pharaoh looked regal even in his own armor, lacquered black, adorned with subtle hieroglyphs, a leopard-skin cloak draped across one shoulder. His war crown gleamed with every move.
"I've never held a sword in battle," Amen admitted, gripping the hilt awkwardly.
"Then you will today," the Pharaoh said simply. "Come."
He led Amen toward a clearing where soldiers sparred in pairs, their blades flashing in tight arcs, their feet moving in practiced rhythm across the sand.
"Train with them. Learn their steps. Do not expect to master the blade in a day, but learn enough not to die."
One of the captains stepped forward, a war veteran named Iman, with hawk-like eyes. "Let me do the honor of teaching the prince, Majesty."
The Pharaoh nodded and left. His silhouette faded behind the columns to oversee the army's mobilization.
Iman sized Amen up. Skeptic. "Are you ready? My lord?" He asked, with unmistakable hint of mockery.
He tossed a practice spear at Amen's feet. He staggered to catch it. "Best you learn to move. Unless you want to die even before the war begins."
The next hour was a blur. Sweat soaked Amen's tunic as he ducked, rolled, parried under Iman's continuous attack. His arms full of abrasions stings. His body ached from exertion.
Yet every strike he blocked, every dodge that spared him a bruise, fueled something inside him, a fire he didn't know he carried.
"Not bad, My Prince," Iman grunted, lowering his spear at last. "Not much finesse, but headstrong. That's all you need to survive for now."
Amen wiped beads of sweat from his brow, panting. His gaze lifted to the distance. He raised his arm to cover the blinding sun.
There beyond the dunes, the trap was being laid, stone by stone.
By noon, he stood beside his father at the gates, watching the columns of infantry and chariots rolling out beneath the blazing sun.
"Are you ready, my son?" The pharaoh sighed.
"I'm not sure, but I'll do my best not to get killed," Amen replied. The pharaoh chuckled.
The war horns sounded, echoing across the sands. Amen rode forward, no longer just an observer, but a prince carving his own legend. Whether he would end victorious or not, it would be up to him.
Scorching heat. Endless desert. Amen's endurance was being tested. His determination started to melt under the glaring sun. Columns of soldiers marched in disciplined rows, dust swirling around their sandals with every step.
Chariots rolled alongside, wheels creaking, their drivers sharp-eyed as they scanned the dunes for any sign of ambush.
Amen rode near the front beside his father, but he could feel the invisible yet tangible wall between him and the soldiers around them.
They spoke in hushed tones behind him.
"The Pharaoh claims him as his son?"
" Where has he been all these years?"
"Looks soft, that one. His hands haven't held a spear before today."
"A prince who speaks like a foreigner. Tsk."
His father remained silent, regal atop his chariot, gaze locked ahead. But Amen couldn't help feeling like an impostor riding under banners he hadn't earned.
As they passed a cluster of infantry taking a brief rest by a well, a young soldier dared step closer. "Amen, is it?" he asked, not bothering to mask his skepticism.
Amen pulled his horse to a stop. "That's what they call me."
"You don't speak like us," the soldier said.
"Don't walk like us. Don't even sweat like us." He gestured toward Amen's clean face, while the men around them were streaked with grime. "We've bled for Pharaoh. Who's to say you won't cower and run when Khay's spears come for us?"
A few nearby soldiers murmured agreement. Their gazes lingered into him. Testing. Taunting.
Amen wanted to snap back, to defend himself, but instead, he dismounted, boots crunching against the sand as he faced them eye to eye.
"I understand you," Amen admitted, his voice steady but firm. "I came from nowhere and suddenly walking side by side with you. I haven't proven anything yet."
The soldiers watched warily. Waiting.
"But tomorrow, when the traitor comes," Amen continued, "it will be my greatest honor to ride and fight alongside the people who has served my father and Egypt."
Silence.
Then the young soldier gave a dry chuckle. "Enough talking," he said flatly, "...prince."
The young soldier turned back toward his squad, shaking his head.
Trust? NO, not yet. But a flicker in his eyes gave Amen hope.
Amen climbed back into the saddle, exhaling slowly. His father hadn't spoken, hadn't intervened, but as Amen rode past him again, the Pharaoh's lips curved faintly.
Approval, perhaps, or amusement. Whatever it is, the march carried on.
The golden sun, dipping on the horizon, casted long shadows across the dunes. Iman offered Amen a waterskin.
"Great speech. But you're winning no hearts with words alone, prince," Iman said gruffly.
"I know," Amen replied, wiping sweat from his brow. "I hope this fight will prove my worth."
Iman's mouth twitched into a faint smirk. "We'll see."
The army crested a ridge overlooking the Gate of Set. The cliffs loomed ahead like silent sentinels, imposing and proud. Amen could feel the weight of the coming dawn settle into his bones.
The camp was a sea of low fires, shadows under the flickering lights danced across the tents and armored men.
The murmurs of soldiers snaked through the cool desert breeze. Some whispered prayers to the gods, others sang low songs of home, and many simply sat in silence, sharpening blades that would taste blood by sunrise.
On a flat rock near the edge of camp, Amen sat alone, contemplating. His gaze lifted to the starry sky, glittering with occassional shooting stars traversing the night sky.
He clenched his fists. The doubts of the day still echoed in his ears.
"Soft."
"Foreign."
"Will he run?"
A rustle of footsteps drew his attention. Iman approached, cloak wrapped tightly around him against the chill. The captain lowered himself beside Amen without a word at first, staring at the stars too.
"They're bright tonight," Iman finally said. "The gods are watching."
"Maybe," Amen replied quietly. "Or maybe they're just stars."
Iman chuckled, rough and low. "You speak like you don't believe in gods." He glanced sideways. "Do you regret coming?"
Amen hesitated. Thinking.
"Do I regret coming? NO. I'm terrified!"
He was a stranger in a time, a land, a life that wasn't his. Iman studied him for a moment, then he stood, his silhouette tall and sturdy in the starlight.
"Tomorrow, ride with me at the center phalanx. We'll see what mettle you carry."
Amen looked up. "You trust me that much?"
"No," Iman said bluntly, with a wry grin. "But if you're going to die, better you die where the gods can see."
With that, he strode back toward the heart of the camp, leaving Amen half-amused, half-nervous.
A new figure approached soon after. The Pharaoh himself, cloaked in dark linen, walked alone, his presence quiet yet commanding. He stopped beside his son, eyes glinting with something between pride and sorrow.
"They do not know you yet, Amen," Pharaoh said softly. "But tomorrow, you will write your name in their hearts."
Amen looked down at his hands, blistered now from riding, gripping reins, holding the sword that still felt foreign in his palm. "And if I fail?"
The Pharaoh's gaze hardened. "Then fail boldly. Fail so fiercely that even your enemies whisper your name. But...," he sighed. "Failure should never be an option."
A long silence passed between them. Then Pharaoh reached down, placing a small amulet into Amen's hand. A scarab of obsidian and gold.
"Wear this," Pharaoh instructed. "It belonged to your grandfather. It has seen many battles. May it see you through yours."
Amen clasped it tightly, feeling its cool weight settle into his palm. "Thank you… Father."
Pharaoh's lips curved into a faint smile. "Rest, my son. The dawn waits for no man."
And with that, he turned, vanishing back into the shadows of his great army.
Amen sat alone again beneath the stars, the amulet pressed against his chest.
He did not sleep. He could not. But as the eastern horizon slowly paled with the first whisper of light, he stood and fastened the scarab around his neck.
The sky blushed crimson as the drums began to beat. The roar of the war drums thundered across the plain, each beat pulsing like a second heartbeat inside Amen's chest. His horse shifted beneath him, snorting, sensing the tension in its rider.
Ahead, the enemy banners unfurled, their rows of spearmen and archers glittering under the rising sun.
And beside him was Iman. Silent, steely-eyed. Around him were soldiers who still glanced his way with doubt, suspicion, and whispered mockery.
"Pharaoh's son? Bah. A name alone does not make a man."
"He's soft. He'll falter."
"We'll have to protect him as we fight."
Amen heard every unspoken word, even if no mouth dared say them aloud.
He gripped his sword tighter. His palms, still stinging from blisters, were slick with sweat despite the morning's cool breeze. His stomach churned, his heart thudded painfully against his ribs. Every instinct screamed run.
Yet here he was.
The horn blared.
"FORWARD!" Iman bellowed. The line surged.
Amen kicked his horse forward, the animal leaping into motion beneath him, hooves pounding the earth. Dust flew up around him, banners snapping wildly in the wind. The sound of hundreds of feet, hundreds of voices rising into a war cry, filled the sky like a storm.
Ahead, the enemy ranks shifted. Bows lifted. The hiss of a thousand arrows in the air.
Amen's chest clenched. His eyes widened as the sky darkened under the falling hail of death.
"Shields!" shouted Iman.
The front lines raised their shields, locking them in practiced formations. Amen fumbled. He had no shield. Just a sword. Just a name.
The first wave of arrows struck.
The sound was deafening—wood and iron slamming into shields, men grunting under the impact, the occasional scream when an arrow found a gap in the defense.
Amen ducked low, his breath ragged. His horse reared, skittish. He almost fell.
No! Stay up! Stay up!
The arrows stopped. Another horn blast.
"CHARGE!"
The cavalry surged forward. The enemy line loomed closer, spears bristling like a wall of thorns.
Amen's throat went dry. He felt every pair of eyes behind him. Waiting. Judging. Expecting.
He was the Pharaoh's son. The prince reborn. The blood of kings.
But all he felt was terror.
The ground rushed beneath him. The gap between armies closed in a blur of dust, metal, and sunlight.
I'm going to die. I'm going to die!
He raised his sword because that's what they expected. Because that's what he had to do. Because turning back wasn't an option.
And in that final heartbeat before the crash, Amen vowed to himself.
Let them see. If I fall, let them see me fall fighting.
Then the two lines clashed, and the world exploded.