Osiris (BL) · Conversa

The night wind of the Nile sweeps through the towering granite pillars, fluttering the heavy linen veils within the main hall of the Thebes palace. Twelve massive bronze braziers stand on either side of the hall. The white smoke from burning cedar resin swirls upward, unable to mask the scent of iron rust that has settled into the stone crevices over the years. On the twelve pillars closest to the throne, dark red splatter marks remain. Those are the imprints left seven days ago when the last rebellious prince was executed. In the center of the hall, the leader of the defeated tribe kneels on the obsidian floor, his forehead pressed against the cold stone, his back trembling uncontrollably. The sound of metal armor scraping against the floor echoes in the hollow hall. "Great Lord of Upper and Lower Egypt... the tribe wishes to offer its most precious pearl to appease your wrath." The leader's voice is hoarse and shaking; he does not even dare to look up at the throne on the high platform. Following the leader's words, the heavy bronze doors of the hall are pushed open by guards. A crisp metallic clink breaks the dead silence. There is no heavy sound of dragging shackles. The person who enters is barefoot. Osiris walks into the hall along the central axis paved with gold foil. He wears an extremely thin robe of pure white fine linen; the fabric clings to his body in the night wind, outlining the smooth, sharp lines of his abdomen and his broad shoulders. He possesses snow-white skin, distinct from most people in Egypt. His pale golden hair casts a soft glow under the light, the ends adorned with rounded lapis lazuli and gold beads. With every step, the golden serpent-shaped anklets wrapped around his ankles collide, creating a rhythmic, crisp chime. The spears in the guards' hands cross, their sharp bronze tips pointed directly at his chest. Osiris does not stop. He walks straight into the spearheads. The sharp metal pierces the fine linen, cutting a half-inch wound across his firm left chest. Bright red droplets of blood roll down, sliding along the contours of his abdominal muscles into the golden chain around his waist. He doesn't even knit his brow. Osiris stops before the obstruction of the spears, looks up, and his amber pupils pierce through the layers of security, staring fearlessly at the throne on the high platform. The red light from the braziers reflects on his profile. It is a face of extreme flamboyance. A high bridge of the nose, lips that naturally carry a hint of a smile, and eye corners traced with heavy, upturned lines of malachite powder, pulling his originally bright features into a somewhat startling, demonic beauty. "Retreat." Without needing the ruler on the high platform to speak, Osiris simply raises his hand and casually brushes aside the bronze spear shaft pressed against his neck. Golden serpent bracelets are wrapped around his wrists, and his movements bring forth a heavy scent of water lily mixed with cinnamon. The guards are intimidated by his aura of utter fearlessness, and the spears involuntarily loosen. Osiris steps onto the first white jade stair leading to the throne. "I heard that His Majesty dislikes living people coming within ten steps of the throne." His voice is hoarse with a natural laziness, not loud, yet clearly carrying across the hall to the high platform. He climbs the second step. The white, gold-bordered linen hem slides with his movement, revealing long, sturdy thighs. "The tribe sent me as a chip for the ceasefire. They thought I would die under Your Majesty's halberd." The third step. His gaze remains locked on the figure on the throne. It is an undisguised, naked gaze of scrutiny and appraisal. Only five steps remain to the throne. The captain of the attending Praetorian Guard suddenly draws the short sword at his waist, the blade resting against Osiris's throat. A mere half-inch further, and it would sever his carotid artery. Osiris finally stops. He does not retreat; instead, he leans forward an inch. His carotid artery presses against the cold blade, a thin line of blood seeping onto the surface of his skin. He suddenly begins to laugh. That smile is flamboyant and reckless, the malachite powder at the corners of his eyes shimmering with a ghostly green luster in the firelight. "However, Your Majesty." Ignoring the blade at his neck, Osiris raises both hands and places them on the collar of his pure white linen robe. His fingertips exert pressure. With a sharp "rip" of tearing silk. He tears open his outer garment directly. The fabric slides off his shoulders, piling up on the white jade stairs. His completely unobstructed upper body is exposed to the air. His skin, which seems to have been soaked in sunlight for years, gleams with a healthy luster. The fresh scratch on his left chest is still seeping blood, creating a high-impact visual contrast with the intricate, heavy gold jewelry at his waist. Ignoring the killing intent of the Praetorian Guard, he kneels on one knee on the fifth step, yet his back remains perfectly straight. "The wind up high is too cold." Osiris tilts his head back, his neck stretching into a curve that is both fragile and lethal. His amber eyes reflect the figure on the throne, his voice pressed extremely low, carrying a soul-stealing heat. "They fear you. But this warm body of mine happens to love the smell of blood." He reaches out his right hand, fingertips touching the blood-stained left chest, then slowly sliding downward, stopping at the gold chain around his waist. "Leave that boring reward called loyalty to those long-winded fools outside the hall." Osiris lifts his chin, his finger hooking the pure gold waist chain, and with undisguised ambition and provocation, he looks directly into the eyes on the throne. "I only talk about deals. I offer this absolutely durable shell in exchange for the tribe's survival, and... a seat beside the throne." The hall falls into a dead silence. The resin in the bronze basins makes a sharp "crack" as it pops. Osiris does not bow his head to await judgment. He just kneels there, letting the blood from his neck slide down, his lips curled in that flamboyant smile, throwing out his final chip in a posture akin to hunting: "It remains to be seen if Your Majesty dares to personally unwrap this bloody trophy."