The training yard rang with the sharp crack of wood on wood, a morning ritual Sobek savored as the sun crept over Vulcan IV’s jagged skyline. He gripped his practice stave—a smooth oak shaft worn from use—his bare feet gripping the packed earth as he faced two Jaffa guards. Their staves sliced through the air, one arcing toward his head, the other jabbing at his midsection. Sobek twisted, his muscled frame fluid as he parried the high strike with a flick of his wrist, then spun his stave to deflect the lower one, the impact reverberating up his arms. Sweat beaded on his brow, glistening in the dawn light, his tunic clinging damply to his chest as he danced between their blows.

  His thoughts, though, strayed from the fight. Wu Ren occupied them—her sharp wit, her guarded smile, the way she’d watched him from the shadows the night before. Her forces had settled into Vulcan IV without a ripple of suspicion, their Ha’taks docked and silent, her Jackal Troops patrolling her quarters with clawed precision. Yet she was Goa’uld, and trust was a fragile thread when power was their creed. He couldn’t fully trust her, not yet. And Hathor—how would he spin this alliance to her? She’d see Wu Ren as a rival or a pawn, and Sobek as a visionary or a threat. He’d frame it as a gift, a bolster to her reign, but the words would need to be sharp, the timing perfect.

  The first guard lunged, stave thrusting at his chest. Sobek sidestepped, cracking his weapon against the Jaffa’s wrist, sending the stave clattering to the dust. The second swung wide, a desperate arc, but Sobek ducked, sweeping his stave low to clip the man’s knees. The guard stumbled, and Sobek finished him with a swift jab to the ribs, dropping him beside his comrade. Breathing hard, he straightened, sweat tracing rivulets down his arms, his chest rising and falling as he shook out his stave. A glint of motion caught his eye—Wu Ren, leaning against a stone pillar at the yard’s edge, her blue silk robe a stark contrast to the earthy tones, her golden eyes glinting with curiosity.

  He walked over, his well-muscled form glistening with sweat, the damp fabric of his tunic outlining every contour. Her gaze lingered, a subtle appraisal he noted with a flicker of amusement. “Impressive,” she said, her voice smooth and edged with a tease, her head tilting slightly. “You wield that stave like it’s an extension of yourself—not just a god playing at war.”

  Sobek grinned, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, the motion casual yet deliberate. “A god who can’t fight’s just a statue, Wu Ren. Keeps the blood flowing.” He caught her eye, his teal gaze glinting. “Wondering if Hathor approves? She’s less of a tyrant than Ra was—cares more for results than ritual.”

  Wu Ren’s lips curved, a spark of intrigue in her expression. “A low bar, considering Ra’s penchant for gilded cages. I’ll judge her for myself soon enough.”

  He nodded, gesturing toward the pyramid’s inner halls. “Let me show you what we’re building here—the weapons that’ll make our alliance sing.” Her smile shifted, a slight flirtatious tilt he clocked internally, a thread of charm he’d weave later. Grabbing a loose tunic from a bench, he threw it on, the fabric settling over his sweat-slicked frame as they walked alone to the testing area, their steps a soft echo on the stone.

  The testing chamber was a vault of steel and stone, its walls pocked with scorch marks, the air thick with ozone and the faint bite of burnt metal. A long table stretched across the center, laden with blasters—sleek devices with cobra motifs curling along their barrels, gleaming in the torchlight. Sobek lifted one, its weight familiar in his clawed grip. “These are our edge,” he said, turning it for her to see. “Harvested gas—stable, plentiful—charged with electricity to form a plasma. A second jolt superheats it, and—” He aimed at a target across the room, a steel-braced wooden slab, and fired. A red bolt streaked out, cracking the air, punching through the wood in a burst of splinters and flame.

  Wu Ren’s eyes widened slightly, her fingers brushing the table as she reached for one. “May I?” she asked, her tone light but eager.

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  “By all means,” Sobek replied, stepping back with a grin. “Let’s see what you can do.”

  She hefted the blaster, testing its balance with a practiced hand, then aimed at a fresh target. Her first shot punched a clean hole through the wood, smoke curling from the edges. She fired again, then again, each bolt striking with pinpoint accuracy, her stance steady and unyielding.

  Sobek watched, genuinely impressed—her skill was no fluke, a stark contrast to Jakkan’s clumsy decadence. “Not bad,” he said, crossing his arms. “You’ve got a knack for this.”

  She lowered the weapon, her smile sly as she set it down with a soft clink. “Centuries teach you a thing or two,” she quipped, her golden eyes glinting. “These are… efficient. Quicker than my staff weapons, if less brutal.”

  “Brute force is overrated when you can swarm,” Sobek countered, joining her to test another. The chamber filled with the crackle of plasma, the scent of charred wood rising as they traded shots, a rhythm of destruction that felt oddly companionable. She wasn’t Jakkan—not by a long shot.

  As the day stretched into evening, they moved to the main hall, its high ceiling lost in shadow, its walls draped in crimson silks that fluttered in the breeze from open arches. Slaves bustled in with trays—roasted fowl glazed with honey, spiced grains in earthen bowls, pitchers of ruby wine that caught the torchlight in shimmering arcs. Sobek settled at the head of the long table, Wu Ren across from him, as a slave poured wine into their goblets, the liquid splashing softly. He raised his, swirling it as he watched her. “So, Wu Ren—eight hundred years old? That’s… a long time for you to have lived under Ra as Goa’uld.”

  She smirked, sipping her wine, the fruity tang sharp on her tongue. “Try living it. Time’s a strange beast. Sometimes we forget to enjoy the simple pleasures in life.” Wu Ren’s hand casually drifted her fingers brushing his arm sending slight chills up his spine.

  Sobek chuckled, leaning back as a slave offered him a slice of meat, its aroma rich with cumin. “Gunpowder’s a fair guess—primitive stuff, though. What’s brewing out there in the empire? You’ve got ears where I don’t.”

  Wu Ren set her goblet down, her expression sobering as she picked at a grain dish with a slender fork. “Chaos, mostly. Minor lords—some major ones, too—are gobbling up Ra’s old turf, snapping at scraps like starving hounds. Word’s trickling in about rebellions—slaves, Jaffa—crushed hard and fast. Something’s stirring, and it’s not just us.”

  Sobek’s mind raced, the meat hovering forgotten as he chewed on her words. Teal’c and SG-1—they’d begun their campaign. Months had passed since Apophis’s likely assault on the SGC gate, a failure he’d buried too long. If rebellions were flaring, SG-1 was making waves—significant ones—and the other SG units, shadows from his old show memories, were probably in play too, chipping at the empire’s edges. Time was slipping, a frustration that gnawed at him. He shook his head, the motion sharp with irritation. Hathor needed to stabilize her dominion fast, and he needed to prove his worth for the Asgard talks in two years—assuming the timeline held. He had to be at that table, shaping the galaxy’s next act.

  “You alright over there?” Wu Ren asked, her tone teasing but her eyes keen, cutting through his silence like a blade.

  He forced a grin, sipping his wine to mask the tension. “Just plotting the galaxy’s end—nothing new.” The conversation drifted, easing into lighter waters. “Ever miss the simpler days?” he asked, leaning forward with a smirk. “No rebellions, just… what, sipping tea and ruling peasants?”

  She laughed, a rare, melodic sound, as a slave refilled her goblet. “Simpler? Hardly. I was dodging assassins and rival gods—tea was a luxury I earned. You?”

  “I’ve not had the luxury of knowing anything else.”

  They lingered over the meal, swapping tales of old battles and oddities—her outwitting a rival with poisoned silk, him outmaneuvering a minor lord with a sandstorm ruse—until the hall dimmed with twilight. “Come,” Sobek said, rising with a stretch. “I’ll walk you back—give your guards a break.”

  She nodded, her smile soft as they left the hall, the city’s hum fading behind them. At her chamber doors, her Jackal Troops stood sentinel, but she waved them off with a flick of her wrist. “Dismissed,” she said, her voice firm. She turned to Sobek, her golden eyes catching the torchlight with an odd, unreadable look that left him momentarily off-balance—not sure whether to step back or forward.

  The doors slid open, and she stepped inside, her fingers gracefully unzipping her robe. The silk fell to her feet in a whisper, revealing the bare curve of her backside, smooth and shadowed in the dim light. She glanced over her shoulder, her voice low and inviting. “Care to join me?”

  Sobek’s host’s heart thudded, a primal beat surging through him, and he crossed the threshold, the doors sliding shut with a soft hum behind him, sealing them inside together.