The Speaker raised his staff, the jewelled head glinting in the torchlight.
"The twelve competitors shall step forward!"
A roar rose from the surrounding tiers as the fighters—mountains of sculpted muscle—descended into the pit.
Zahra remained toward the back, hood low, arms folded beneath the cloak. The men beside her shifted, glancing over in annoyance as if her stillness was its own provocation.
One scoffed and elbowed the man next to him.
"A runt," he muttered.
"Barely a fighter," another said.
"Perhaps Tadal has finally gone senile."
She rolled her eyes.
Above them, Atem's fingers drummed once against his throne arm before going still. His eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in calculation.
Tadal did not react at all. Not outwardly. But his hand, now resting at his belt, trembled once.
Only Zahra noticed.
A satisfied smirk tugged the corner of her mouth beneath her hood. For all his speeches about self-control, Tadal was terrible at hiding his emotions around her.
The Speaker drew lots for the first match, and the crowd rippled with anticipation.
The first round would be a straightforward one-on-one. After that, the second round would see the remaining six battle it out in two rounds of three competitors. Then the remaining two would go on to battle head-to-head to become the Pharaoh's champion.
It was perfectly simple.
One man stepped forward, a monstrous brute—Memnon— after his lot was drawn first. His chest was a slab of stone, his arms thick as temple pillars. He cast a wide, hungry glance at the fighters, already searching for prey.
Zahra hoped she would face him later.
It would be… delicious.
Then another man stepped forward, drawn as his opponent. He kept a good composure, but she could see a swallow of apprehension in his throat.
The Speaker raised another straw.
"Theroux of Thebes!"
The crowd screamed with delight. A favourite, she realised.
Theroux strutted into the pit—towering, broad, muscles rippling like coiled ropes. His long black hair whipped dramatically behind him, and he thumped his chest for the crowd, drawing louder screams.
"And his opponent…"
A pause. A glance toward the final drawn straw. Double-checking, with a stutter in his throat.
"… Maahes."
Maahes, named after the King of Lions, the crowd waited for one of the largest men to move, until Zahra, who still hid under her cloak, jumped down into the pit.
For a heartbeat, the entire room stilled.
Then came the murmurs.
"He won't last long."
"Barely worth hitting."
She rolled her eyes again as other comments tried to stab into her confidence. Let them talk; their ignorance will only sweeten her victory.
The pit was cleared, and the first competitor called in the lot would choose a ball from the bag to decide the order of the fights. When Theroux drew the black ball, that meant they would be the first match.
Above them, Atem leant forward on his throne, elbow resting on one knee. He studied the cloaked fighter with a growing, unwilling interest. The murmurs of the crowd brushed at the back of his awareness — doubts, insults, bets, political implications whispered with a kind of hunger he'd grown accustomed to ignoring.
But Tadal's fighter… this Maahes… something about them snagged at him. He catalogued the fighter the way rulers did — instinctively, coldly, calculatingly.
Small frame.
Thin forearms.
Bare legs showing decent muscle, but nothing remarkable.
Northern-style fighting suit — rare, expensive, notoriously difficult to obtain. The material was said to be lighter than cotton, stronger than iron and more durable than leather.
That alone made Atem's attention sharpen. Whoever this fighter was, they were being funded with purpose.
Then — impossibly — the cloaked fighter lifted their chin and nodded sharply, confidently, insolently, at him.
At him.
Atem's jaw tightened. He wasn't sure whether to be irritated… or intrigued. Had he been caught staring? He wasn't sure whether he wanted the fighter humiliated for that… or whether he simply wanted to know what hid beneath that hood.
Beside him, Tadal sniggered softly.
"You know that competitor, Tadal?" Atem asked, his tone dipped in curiosity and annoyance.
"I do, my Pharaoh. That competitor is my own. My most treasured possession."
Atem's lips curled in confusion. So, this cloaked one was being funded by him.
How odd, Tadal had insisted on the tournament, but never once suggested he had someone he wished to sponsor.
Then something he said snagged on his mind… most treasured?
Tadal had been with him since he was a child, and there was one thing he knew: Tadal treasured family above everything else.
"You have a… son?" Atem asked, unable to hide his suspicion.
Tadal winked. "No, my Pharaoh. I do not."
Against his better judgment, he found himself leaning forward; this tournament intrigued him. Usually, his expertise lay in the powerful creatures sealed within the stone tablets they used to duel, a magic few could comprehend. His advisor, however, had an irrational fear that someone would come after him with a not-so-magical agenda, so this tournament would not be fought with monsters, but with good, old-fashioned fists.
Atem stared hard at the cloaked fighter again — suddenly far too aware of them, enthralled despite himself.
He wanted this match to begin.
Not for the spectacle.
Not for the politics.
Not even for the crowd.
He wanted to see what Tadal valued above all else.
He wanted to see what this cloaked stranger could do.
The Speaker gestured to begin, and his staff struck the stone with a crack that echoed like thunder.
"Let the first battle… COMMENCE!"
The crowd erupted, their excitement turning feral.
Theroux rolled his shoulders, each movement rippling with muscle and confidence. He looked like a man carved from the very columns of the pyramid — built to dominate, never to break, always be the one left standing.
Zahra remained still. Too still.
Even the burliest competitors shifted uncomfortably at the sight of a fighter who didn't fidget, didn't stretch, didn't pace. Stillness, true stillness, was unnerving. It belonged to predators who didn't need to prove anything—those at the top of the food chain, who had no one else to fear. And they had no reason to believe her a predator.
Tadal's throat bobbed once. Zahra felt it rather than saw it.
Tadal kept his hands clasped behind his back so no one could see the tension trembling through them. He hated this part, the waiting before the violence. It reminded him that, however skilled she was, she could still bleed.
Zahra was strong — stronger than any fighter here.
But he had also been the one to hold her when she'd broken bones as a child without knowing her own strength. He had been the one to train her, guide her, teach her to control the wild, dangerous force that lived inside her.
He trusted her completely.
He just hated watching her get hurt.
And he hated that the Pharaoh's sharp, assessing eyes were fixed on her even more.
Theroux entered the pit like a force of nature — massive, muscular, adored by the crowd.
Zahra entered like a ghost. Still. Small. Silent.
Theroux wore a slightly ripped white vest and a beige fighting skirt that clung tightly to his massive thighs. They were training clothes, a taunt to the other competitors, a taunt to her, treating this as if he were warming up for this entire tournament.
He cracked his knuckles. "Come, little one. I'll make this quick."
Zahra tilted her head, amused.
Try it.
He roared and charged.
Zahra moved like smoke.
A breath to the left.
A step to the right.
A shift of weight so subtle the crowd didn't see it. But she felt the eyes of two men who did.
Her father didn't breathe.
The Pharaoh's fingers stilled on the throne, and she found herself hoping that he would know that this was skill, her skill, not luck.
Theroux swung again, sand exploding like sparks.
Still, Zahra didn't strike — she watched, measured, waited.
Theroux's fury grew. He lunged with everything he had.
There was an impact that lifted the sand in a frenzy.
As it settled, gasps rippled through the stands.
Zahra stepped in, caught his colossal fist in one small hand, and stopped him dead.
Atem sat up straighter, eyes sharp in disbelief.
Tadal shut his eyes briefly — relief and fear tangled in his chest.
Theroux, panicked now, tried to pull back.
Zahra twisted, used his momentum, and slammed her fist into his ribs. The sound was sickeningly precise.
Theroux folded.
She hurled him across the pit.
He struck the wall so hard the stone shook.
On unsteady feet, like a newborn lamb, he began to cough and vomit from the impact.
Theroux wiped the bile from his mouth, clenching his fists in anger.
She dared him to land another hit.
Before he could move, his knees buckled, as he forcefully coughed and spluttered on the sand.
Then, Silence.
Zahra dipped her head, acknowledging the crowd and Speaker without conceit — then returned to her place without looking winded.
"…Maahes is the victor!" the Speaker declared.
There was barely audible applause.
Round one done.
Let them whisper.
Let them fear.
Let the Pharaoh wonder.
Zahra smiled beneath her hood — a smile sharp as a blade.
Bring on the next round.
She was far from finished.