Atem remained seated, unmoving, but the hard line of his mouth had softened, not into a smile, but into something more complicated, something disturbingly akin to admiration.
And irritation.
And confusion.
He would not look away. Not now.
Not until he knew who – and what – this fighter truly was.
Just next to him, Tadal released a breath he'd been holding for minutes.
The roar washed over her like heat.
She stood at the centre of the pit, chest rising and falling, sand clinging to her skin beneath the cloak.
Victory.
Clean. Earned.
She turned, intending to step away—
And felt the weight leave her shoulders.
The cloak slid free.
She froze.
For half a heartbeat, she thought she'd imagined it. Then cool air kissed her spine.
The crowd saw.
The hush came first — sharp, collective, stunned.
Then the sound broke apart into fragments.
"A woman—"
"Impossible—"
"Did you see her fight—"
"Tadal's daughter—"
"A trick—"
"No rules—"
Her cloak lay crumpled in the sand behind her. Dagan's fingers were still knotted in one corner of the cloak — just enough for the weight to slip free.
A golden braid hung loose down her back, catching the torchlight like molten sun. Her fighting suit clung to her frame, no longer ambiguous, no longer forgivable in the eyes of tradition.
Zahra straightened slowly. Not reaching for the cloak.
Instead, she lifted her chin.
Let them look.
Zahra didn't look away from the throne.
She knew exactly who mattered now.
Dagan pushed himself up onto one elbow, blinking sand from his eyes. Looking at the cloak he clutched in his fingers.
Then he saw her.
Not cloaked. Not hidden.
A woman.
His mouth split into a grin — slow, ugly, delighted.
Tadal's heart lurched painfully.
Oh no.
He surged halfway forward before stopping himself — hands curling into fists at his sides.
This was the moment he'd dreaded.
Not because she'd be revealed — that was inevitable. But because of who would be watching.
He didn't look at her first. He looked at the throne.
The Pharaoh had risen to his feet without realising he'd moved.
A sharp, instinctive motion — as though the ground beneath him had shifted.
His breath caught.
A woman.
The cloaked fighter — the one who had dismantled trained warriors with surgical precision — was not a slight, underestimated man at all.
She was—
His gaze traced her stance before he could stop himself. The way she held her weight. The way her fists were still half-raised, ready to strike again if needed. The way her eyes burned beneath the torchlight — defiant, furious, alive.
Something coiled low in his chest.
Surprise.
Disbelief.
And something else he didn't care to name.
His mind raced. Tadal has no son.
His thoughts snagged on a memory — old, blurred by time.
Grief.
A woman veiled in white.
A trusted advisor hollow-eyed with loss.
A child born from rumours that had never come to court.
By the gods…
Atem turned slowly, eyes narrowing as they locked onto Tadal.
The Speaker stormed across the platform, face thunderous, hissing urgently at Tadal.
"This was not agreed—!"
"No rule forbade it," Tadal replied coldly.
"She is a woman—!"
"And undefeated."
The Speaker faltered.
The crowd was still buzzing, torn between outrage and awe.
"So," the Pharaoh said, his voice calm — too calm. "I was not aware you had a daughter."
Tadal met his gaze evenly.
"I told you the truth, my Pharaoh," he said with a quiet wink. "I do not have a son."
A murmur of laughter broke from Atem's throat — sharp, incredulous.
Dangerous.
"Well played," he murmured.
"She is exposed now," Atem added coolly. "And the crowd is no longer impartial."
"She has always been exposed," Tadal answered, heat breaking through his composure at last. "People simply chose not to see it."
That earned Atem's full attention.
Tadal's hands trembled at his sides, but his voice did not.
"She entered knowing the cost. In fact, that was her condition for doing this. Knowing the danger, she fought with restraint, discipline, and honour when many men here did not."
Atem's eyes narrowed.
"And if she is killed?"
Tadal met his gaze without flinching.
"Then it will be by her decisions. Not her deception."
Silence stretched between them — taut as drawn wire.
Below, Zahra stood unmoving in the pit, watching them both.
Waiting.
She did not cover herself.
She did not retreat.
She lifted her chin and met the Pharaoh's gaze across the pit — eyes blazing with challenge.
For the first time since the tournament began, Atem felt something answer his stare.
Defiance.
Unbowed.
Unbroken.
And bound — if she won — to him.
The thought sent an unexpected jolt through him.
Still, she held his gaze. Unflinching. As though daring him to deny her victory.
As though daring him to claim her.
Atem felt the golden prism at his chest grow heavy.
Yes.
This would complicate everything.
Politics. Perception. Power.
And him.
Atem lifted a single hand. Silence rippled outward.
His head turned towards the speaker, the movement deliberate, controlled. His eyes never left Zahra.
"There were no rules forbidding women," he said evenly. "You announced that yourself."
The Speaker swallowed. "Yes, my Pharaoh, but—"
"But nothing," Atem cut in. "And the fight is not yet concluded."
Dagan laughed again — loud, eager.
"Then let me finish it," he snarled, rolling his shoulders. "I'd love to finish her."
A murmur swept the crowd — dark, thrilled.
Atem's mouth hardened.
He sat back down slowly, eyes never leaving her.
"Continue," he said, a little too quietly.
And for the first time since ascending the throne, Atem realised something deeply unsettling: He wasn't watching a weapon.
He was watching a woman who would either become his greatest asset…
Or his greatest threat.