The Loyal Wound

Timer raised a hand, and the soldiers moved at once, forcing the row of traitors down onto their stomachs against the stone, arms pinned, faces turned into the dust. He walked past them without hurry, toward the low table where the golden axe waited, its edge catching the torchlight in a thin, cold line.

He drew the blade lightly across his own palm — barely a cut, just enough to open the skin — and a single bead of blood welled up, dark against gold. He turned, offering the hand to Meritaten.

She took it without hesitation, her tongue drawing slow along the wound, and he watched her face while she did.

"Is it sweet?" he asked.

"Bloody sweet," she said.

He crossed to the first of them, still face-down against the stone, and crouched, fingers closing into the man's hair. The traitor's breath came ragged beneath him, some plea half-forming and never finishing. Timer pulled his head back and brought the axe down in one clean motion.

The force of the strike loosed his own hair from its tie, a dark length falling forward to slip across half his face, covering one eye.

He rose, unhurried, wiping nothing from the blade, and turned his gaze to the next man in the row.

He crossed to him and set one foot against the side of his face, pressing him flatter into the stone.

"You will die for this," the man spat, voice cracking beneath the pressure.

"Let's see about that," Timer said, almost pleasant, and brought the axe down.

Blood arced up and caught him across the cheek, warm against his skin, already cooling by the time he straightened.

He sat in his court now, still, composed, while Meritaten leaned close beside him, a wet silk cloth moving slow and careful across his face, wiping the last of the blood away.

"It's fine," he said, catching the tightness in her expression before she could hide it. He leaned in, voice low, just for her. "Is something wrong? Have I done something?"

She shook her head, silent, and stepped back, leaving the cloth folded on the table beside him.

Timer turned to Horemheb, who stood at the edge of the court, saying nothing.

"I'm sorry, Horemheb." His voice carried real weight now, none of the ease from moments before. "But it was my duty to kill the traitors. Even if it was my own son. I had to."

Horemheb's eyes were red-rimmed, his face otherwise unreadable. He wiped a hand slow across it, as if the gesture might clear something the blood hadn't.

"No need to be sorry, my lord." His voice came flat, controlled. "It was your duty." He looked down, away from Timer's eyes, toward the stone floor between them. "I would have done the same, if I were you."

His eyes were full when he said it, brimming at the edges, catching the torchlight in a way that made them shine wet and dark — but nothing fell. Not one tear crossed the line of his lashes. He held it there, contained, the way a man holds something he refuses to let anyone else witness breaking.