From the shadows stepped a thin young boy—Amenhotep, the lowest-ranking scribe in the temple.
He clutched a stolen scarab carving, his palms cut and bleeding from the gemstone's sharp edges.
"Today... I wanted to match your feathers with this," he said, lifting the lapis lazuli scarab, his eyes shining brightly.
Serapha finally turned to look at him.
For three hundred years, she had been worshipped by pharaohs as the "Messenger of the Sun God," revered by the people as the "Omen of Immortality."
And yet, only this human boy noticed that her third feather on the right wing was chipped—a wound she had sustained last month when she calmed the flooding Nile.
The walls of the temple basement were covered with ancient runes—an old magic formation designed to imprison the phoenix.
Every full moon, the high priest would take a drop of her blood—
"It is your honor to grant longevity to the pharaoh," they said, firmly.
Only Amenhotep, after the ceremony, would sneak into the chamber when no one was around.
He would tiptoe quietly to her side, gently wrapping the hideous wound at the base of her wing with linen soaked in ointment.
"Can you help me escape from here?" she suddenly asked, her voice tinged with urgency and hope.
Her once-dim eyes now shone with a spark of light, filled with yearning, as she stared directly at the only human who had ever shown her kindness.
Amenhotep was startled by her sudden question.
Panic flickered in his eyes, and he instinctively looked away.
After a long silence, he stammered, "But... but I still have family here. The high priest... he'll never spare them..."
Serapha, seeing his hesitation, quickly said, "With my divine power, as long as I can break this formation, I can take your whole family to a safe place. Wouldn't that be better?"
The boy hesitated, a flicker of conflict crossing his face.
He stood silent for a long moment, weighing his choices.
But in the end, he only whispered, "I'm sorry," before fleeing like a frightened rabbit, not even daring to look back once.
Serapha watched his retreating figure, a bitter smile curving her lips.
Seeking benefit and avoiding harm—this truly was human nature.
Even the kindest soul could not escape its pull.
The uprising erupted on the next blood moon.
Serapha, with her last remnants of divine power, burned herself in defiance.
Proud as she was, how could she ever submit to living as a prisoner beneath others' mercy?
Amidst the chaos and fleeing crowds, her gaze suddenly caught a lone figure.
It was Amenhotep—the young scribe.
Unlike the others who fled in terror, he stood still, quietly watching her.
And in the moment their eyes met, she saw in his gaze both reverence and sorrow.
Then, something unexpected happened—
Amenhotep slowly knelt, offering her the most solemn and sacred bow of worship.
When she slowly opened her eyes again, it was as if time had quietly slipped by while she slept.
She looked around and found herself in a completely unfamiliar world.
Ancient buildings, bustling streets, and people wearing strange and exotic clothing filled her with astonishment.
After asking around, she learned that this was the golden age of the Roman Empire.
The emperor led mighty armies, expanding the empire's borders in all directions.
And in the heart of the city, the Colosseum staged bloody spectacles daily, where nobles indulged in this cruel form of entertainment.
Here, it was the gladiator Marcus who became the first human to stir her heart.