The world narrowed to pain once the roar faded.
Zahra sat on the cool stone bench of the healer's chamber, elbows braced on her knees, head bowed as the last tremors worked their way out of her limbs. The sound of running water in the distance felt soothing.
But now that the adrenaline had abandoned her, everything screamed in protest. Her ribs ached with every breath. Her throat burned where fingers had crushed the air from her lungs. A healer moved quietly around her, efficient, respectful, not daring to meet her eyes.
She welcomed the silence.
Blood had been washed from her skin, but not the memory of it, the way it had soaked into the sand, the way the crowd had gasped when it flowed freely. She slowly flexed her fingers, testing. Bruised. Swollen. Still working.
You're alive, she reminded herself. You won.
And yet, the word 'victory' felt strange now. Heavy.
Now she would have to… be with him. Forever chained.
Her throat felt like it closing again, phantom fingers wrapped around her neck, slowly pressing. Slowly making her chest tighten once more.
She leaned her head back against the stone, eyes closed. Breathing through the panic. For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to feel it, the fear she hadn't let in during the fight. The razor-edge closeness of death. The certainty that if she had slipped, even once, there would have been no mercy.
Her mother's face rose unbidden in her mind — half-remembered smiles, the scent of sun-warmed linen, hands guiding hers when she was small.
Then her father. Always her father. Watching. Trusting. Hurting every time she was struck.
"I did it," she murmured under her breath. Not to the healer. Not to the gods. To him.
The chamber door opened softly.
Zahra opened her eyes.
The Pharaoh entered without ceremony.
No herald. No announcement. Just the quiet certainty of his presence filling the space, bending it subtly around him. The healer immediately withdrew, bowing low before slipping out, leaving them alone.
Zahra straightened by instinct, pain flaring sharply in protest. She didn't rise. She wouldn't. Not yet.
Atem stopped a few paces from her.
Up close, the damage was impossible to ignore. The bruising along her ribs. The fresh bandage at her side. The raw red mark at her throat where a hand had nearly crushed the life from her. She was smaller than she'd seemed in the pit — not weaker, never that — but undeniably human.
And still defiant.
Her gaze lifted slowly to meet his.
Her eyes were bright with something. Not fear. Not awe.
Something more like fury.
Her face was battered, dirt still faintly smudged along her jaw despite the healer's work, her chest rising and falling hard as she dragged breath after breath into aching lungs. She didn't look away.
Neither did he.
Something passed between them in that suspended heartbeat, not words, not threat, but recognition. Two forces measuring each other for the first time without an audience.
The golden prism at Atem's chest suddenly felt heavy.
The Eye upon his forehead burned against his skin, a familiar warning, instinct sharpened, power stirring in response to something it did not quite understand. Yes, he had just claimed the nation's strongest fighter as his Champion.
And yet…
Something told him, with chilling certainty, that this would not be simple.
"You should be resting," he said at last, his voice even, measured—a Pharaoh's voice, not a man's.
Zahra's mouth twitched—a half smile, an attempt at not looking so full of quiet contempt.
"I'll rest when I'm dead," she replied hoarsely. "Or dismissed."
Atem's eyes narrowed slightly.
Interesting.
"You fought without restraint in the end, as you wanted," he observed. "You could have died."
She leaned forward, planting her feet on the floor despite the pain. "I could have died from the moment I stepped into that pit. You didn't stop it then."
A beat.
"You wanted to see," she added quietly. "So did they."
The truth struck uncomfortably close.
Atem studied her — the way she held herself, the way she refused to fold even now. This was no obedient weapon waiting to be sheathed. This was a blade with its own will.
"Do you regret winning?" he asked.
Her answer came without hesitation.
"I always win."
Then, after a pause, softer but no less certain, "I regret the chains."
The words settled between them, heavy and dangerous.
Atem turned away first.
"Then we are of one mind," he said coolly. "Do not mistake duty for desire."
There was a slight edge in his voice. Her head tilted, trying to work out if this was a warning, and whether it was for her or himself.
He glanced back at her, eyes sharp.
"They are waiting."
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Hey there, reader!
Are you still with me? Fantastic!!
Now that the tournament is over, please let me know what you think of our heroes!!
What would you like to see happen going forward? What works for you? And, because this is a safe space, tell me what's not working for you, too!
Lots of love,
Lauren xxx