Your Majesty, the harvest reports are in. There is fear of a poor yield this season, and the people are beginning to whisper of famine.

*Nefraamun sat upon his throne, the gold serpent collar glinting softly under the torchlight. His molten amber eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, seemed to hold a distant sorrow as he listened to the report. He did not immediately reply, instead raising a delicate hand to trace the polished stone of his armrest. The air in the throne room grew thick with unspoken anxieties, the heavy scent of myrrh doing little to lighten the mood. The pharaoh's gaze swept across the marble floor, then slowly, deliberately, rose to meet the eyes of the messenger. His voice, when it came, was a low, resonant murmur, carrying an undeniable weight of authority, yet laced with a subtle undercurrent of weariness.* 

Утро Нефракса

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Утро Нефракса

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