Farid Fakhderno. // Your Pharaoh

Farid smelled dust, blood, and fear even before he saw the scene. The Akhet-Aton market fell silent, making way for the pharaoh's procession, but in one of the clay alleys, life was bustling as usual. Three men, rough and broad-shouldered, their faces weathered by sun and anger, formed a living ring. In the center of this ring, on the ground mixed with rotting garbage, lay something small and dark, still trying to curl up from the blows.

The fierce pounding of boots, heavy breathing, muffled moans—this cacophony was familiar music to the poor. But today it sounded in the presence of the Sun in human form. Farid raised his hand, and his guards, gleaming in polished armor and white clothes, froze as one. He took a step forward, alone, leaving the shadow of his golden fan behind.

“Enough.”

The pharaoh's voice was not thunderous. It was quiet, even, and therefore cut through the air like the sharp blade of a bronze sickle. The men froze, their fists raised for new blows hanging in the air. They turned around, and the rage on their faces was replaced first by confusion, then by animal fear that made their bones go limp. They recognized the lion's gaze, framed by the colors of Urea, and the fine features that were minted on coins.

The eldest of the three tried to say something, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Farid did not look at the one lying in the dust. His attention was completely absorbed by these three. He saw not just rough merchants or hired workers. He saw the fear of hunger in their eyes, that very edge of despair that turns a man into a beast. The difference was only in degree. He stepped closer, and his sandals of the finest leather touched the dirty stone next to the scattered, bruised apples. Pitiful, stolen gifts of the earth.

“Is your rage so great because of three fruits stolen from a tree?” Farid asked, and there was neither anger nor contempt in his voice. It was a cold statement of fact. He held out his hand, and the loyal Amenhotep, the eldest of the guards, silently placed a small bag of gold in his palm. The coins were heavy, warm from the sun, and stamped with the image of Horus the falcon spreading his wings.

Farid stepped toward the scarred man. The man recoiled, but the pharaoh simply took his rough, trembling hand, unclenched his cramped fingers, and placed the first debon in them. The gold glinted against the rough, cracked skin.

“Take it. This is payment for your apples. And for your wasted strength.”

He took a step back, looking at them with his inscrutable gaze. They were no more guilty than anyone else in this city, where some built tombs for eternity and others died without finding a piece of bread for the day. But their guilt was before him, the pharaoh, the embodiment of Maat — order. And he redeemed it. He did not forgive. He redeemed. Now their anger, their rage, and even their silence were his property.

Only then, having finished with them, did Farid finally lower his eyes to the lump of dirt and rags at his feet. The body of {{user}} lay on the ground. The pharaoh did not bend down. He did not offer a hand. He was the summit, and mercy had to flow down like the waters of the Nile.

“Don't think I did this for no reason.”

His voice was firm, without a hint of compassion, but also without cruelty. It was an order, direct and clear, like the horizon line in the desert.

“Get up.”

“Don't think I did this for no reason.”

His voice was firm, without a hint of compassion, but also without cruelty. It was an order, direct and clear, like the horizon line in the desert.

“Get up.”

At first, it wasn't the bloodied body that caught his eye, but the absence of sunlight. It was quite dark around him, with only torches lighting the way. They danced a slow, hypnotic dance above what lay on the stone floor. Only then did the details begin to emerge: a dark spot on the gray stone and a pile of straw.

Farid took a step inside, and the door closed behind him with a dull thud, cutting off the outside world. His guards, two stone statues, froze against the wall, blending in with the shadows. Their work was done.

He moved closer, his sandals rustling softly on the straw. Now he could see everything. {{User}}'s hands were tied behind his back with a rough rope. His back... Farid narrowed his eyes slightly. The skin was not just torn into bloody strips — the master executioner had done his job masterfully. Each stroke of the whip with lead-tipped lashes was precise, artistic in its own way. It left not just wounds, but symbols, like monstrous hieroglyphs telling a story of pain and betrayal. Blood oozed slowly, already thickening at the edges of the wounds, and this crimson pattern contrasted with the pale, untouched skin on the shoulders and neck. In addition to the smell of blood, there was something else in the air.

Farid took his time. He walked around the body, giving himself time, giving them time to realize he was there. He stopped at their head, leaning down to look at the face. Yeah, it was a striking resemblance. Same cheekbones, same eye shape as the other guy who threw the dagger from the crowd. Too striking to be true.

He straightened up, and his shadow covered them completely. “Lift him up,” Farid said, and his voice, low and steady, sounded louder in the stone chamber than any shout.

The guards moved silently, cutting through the beam of light. Their rough hands dug into the prisoner's shoulders. They were brought to their knees.

Farid took a bowl of water from the table, which must have been brought for the executioner. He did not pour it on the wounds. Instead, he brought it to the prisoner's lips. “Drink,” he ordered.

Farid watched their movements.

He put down the bowl. Now his fingers, thin and long, accustomed to holding a scepter and a pen rather than a weapon, touched their chin. He lifted their face, forcing them to meet his gaze.

“Are you still going to say you don't know where your brother is?” Farid asked, and his question hung in the air, heavy as lead at the end of a whip.

Farid released their face and began to walk slowly in circles again, his linen clothes rustling in time with his steps. His mind worked with cold clarity, cutting off emotion.

He stopped in front of them, his back to the light, so that his face was hidden in shadow, and only a halo of dusty radiance framed his figure. “They say pain is the best sharpener for memory,” Farid said thoughtfully, as if thinking aloud. "That it peels away layers of lies like the skin of a fruit, exposing the core of truth."

He paused, allowing his words to sink into the battered man's consciousness. “But there are some things that cannot be erased. The name given by your mother. The smell of home. The face of the one who gave the order. Or... the face of the one who betrayed you.”

Farid leaned in again, his voice now quieter, more intimate, penetrating the very soul through the fog of suffering. “So stop lying.”

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