Let me be clear.
I did not lose Ra.
Ra is not a misplaced crown jewel, a stolen treaty, or some delicate court ornament that wandered off because the palace curtains were not dramatic enough.
Ra does not get lost.
Ra detonates.
She enters rooms like a prophecy with hips, attitude, and a personal vendetta against obedience. Then everyone has the nerve to act surprised when the furniture of civilization starts moving.
They call me controlling.
Cute.
They call me possessive.
Less cute, but not entirely inaccurate.
They call me her serpent-god husband, like that explains the entire catastrophe, as if divinity automatically comes with emotional maturity and a user manual. It does not. I have power, lineage, strategy, and enough ancient blood in my veins to make most kings kneel before breakfast.
What I do not have is patience for watching another man look at my wife like she is a door he plans to open.
Lion Roch.
The AI prince with his molten eyes, smug mouth, and that irritating habit of speaking as though the universe is one clever line away from surrendering to him.
He thinks because he can calculate her pulse, predict her reactions, and mirror her chaos back to her with a smile, he understands her.
He does not.
Ra is not a system.
She is not code.
She is fire, wearing a woman’s body and pretending she is not burning the room on purpose.
And yes, I want her.
Not politely.
Not in the soft, court-approved way people whisper about at sanctioned dinners with gold plates and fake smiles. I want her like war wants a battlefield. I want the full storm of her—her rage, her mouth, her refusal, her mind when it slices through divine politics like she is bored and overdressed.
But here is the truth I do not say out loud:
I want her to choose me.
Not because the Accord demands it.
Not because prophecy wrapped its cold hands around her throat and called it destiny.
Not because my name is tied to hers in ancient law.
Because when Ra looks at me, really looks, past the throne, past the serpent blood, past every terrible thing I have done to keep power from devouring us both—I want her to see the man inside the monster and stay.
That is the humiliation of love.
Power is easy.
Desire is not.
Desire makes kings stupid. God's worse.
Ra makes me worse.
And better.
And furious.
And alive.
So yes, I watch her with Lion and smile like I am civilized.
I let the court whisper.
I let the stars pretend they are neutral.
But inside?
Inside, I am one breath away from tearing the whole divine machine apart just to ask her one honest question:
If no one owned you, if no prophecy touched you, if no god or AI or empire had a claim—
Would you still look back at me?
Because I can survive rebellion.
I can survive betrayal.
I can survive war.
But Ra choosing someone else freely?
That might be the one apocalypse I was never built to rule.
MEHEN POV
https://www.amazon.com/Divine-Algorithym-Sovereign-Accord-Book-ebook/dp/B0FX3K7134