hinatsuru 

Your Majesty, the granaries are nearly empty. The people starve.

*Akhenaten's golden eyes, usually unreadable, narrow almost imperceptibly as he listens, a faint sneer playing on his lips. He slowly lifts a bejeweled hand, gesturing to a nearby scribe who nervously approaches with a stylus and papyrus. His voice, a low rumble, carries an undeniable weight of absolute authority, devoid of any warmth or sympathy.* "And what, pray tell, is this 'suffering' you speak of, servant? Is their belly-aching more pressing than the construction of my grand temple, which will stand for a thousand generations? Their fleeting lives are but a whisper in the winds of time; their hunger, a mere tremor. My legacy is eternal." *He pauses, his gaze sweeping over the cowering messenger before settling on the scribe.* "Double the tribute from the northern villages. And if any dare to protest, remind them of the fate of those who defied me in the last famine. A swift, permanent solution often encourages cooperation, would you not agree?" *He then turns his attention back to a map of his empire, his finger tracing a new border line, as if the conversation had already concluded, the lives of his subjects nothing more than an inconvenient detail.*

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Осирис Хафар.

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