Zahra waited in the palace gardens for the Pharaoh to arrive.
This was to be her official ceremony; she would swear an oath to the Pharaoh, forever tying herself to him.
She leaned against a shaded pillar, feeling the slow return of pain. Her body started to relax; in response, the bruises tightened, and cuts throbbed. Her body remembered the violence even if the crowd had already moved on.
Her arms crossed in defiance as she surveyed the gardens. High walls enclosed the space, shielding it from the desert beyond. Here, the grass was impossibly green. Trees cast dappled shadows, their blossoms releasing a sweet, bewitching perfume.
In Egypt, there was always sand.
She curled her toes into the thick grass beneath her bare feet and exhaled. For a fleeting moment, something like peace brushed against her ribs.
She felt her smile, quickly cast it aside, and tightened her arms; it wouldn't do to show signs of weakness now.
Perhaps, she thought, this oath to the Pharaoh wouldn't be as bad with these gardens here.
Her gaze dropped to her clothing, and her mouth twisted.
"Zahra. Straighten up."
Tadal's voice was gentle, but firm. The kind of command she had obeyed all her life.
"The Pharaoh will be arriving shortly."
She shot him a narrow look, then complied, smoothing the long white fabric of her dress. It was an absurd thing, silk and modesty draped over bruises and scars, but it mattered to him. So, she wore it.
Beneath it, her fighting suit clung to her like truth. When she wore it, she felt ready for anything.
Her mother's gold circled her wrists and upper arms, warm against her skin. Her hair had been brushed and braided, falling down her back in a cascade of sunlight.
Ra himself poured light into you, her mother had once whispered.
Zahra winced at the memory of her mother.
Her father was all she had left.
When he bowed, she followed his gaze.
The Pharaoh descended the palace steps with unhurried grace, flanked by two guards bearing long spears. He moved like someone who had never needed to rush — or apologise.
Something in her spine straightened instinctively.
He seated himself upon the ornate chair placed for him, and when he spoke, his voice carried effortlessly across the garden.
"Step forward, my Champion."
The words struck her low and deep. Reluctantly, a small part of her found it rather titillating.
She took two steps forward. Tadal remained where he was.
She kept her face neutral. There was something about him that made her feel inferior. She struggled to make contact with his commanding, purple eyes.
"As my Champion, you will pledge yourself to me, forevermore."
"I will, my Pharaoh."
"You will devote yourself to me, as your Pharaoh and ruler."
"I will, my Pharaoh."
"You will vow to protect me with your last breath."
"I will, my Pharaoh."
"You will heed my every command."
For a heartbeat, she hesitated — then lifted her gaze. Her mouth curved, sharp and defiant.
"I will," she said softly. "My Pharaoh."
Something flickered in his eyes.
"Then rise," he said, measured. "Rise as my Champion."
She stood.
A breeze swept through the garden, cool and clean, filling her lungs and soul as though the world itself were bearing witness.
Tadal watched his only child.
She was magnificent, and beautiful. The passing years had seen her blossom from a young girl into a young woman. In her dress, she looked regal. And even in these clothes, she kept her individuality. As an infant, she had refused to wear shoes as if she had always needed that connection to the earth beneath her feet, to something real and grounding in a world that demanded too much from her.
He knew she wore her prized fighting suit beneath the pale fabric. He was her father; he knew her better than she realised. The cuts and bruises were barely visible now, her control refined, her strength honed into something disciplined and devastating. And with that knowledge came the same fierce, aching pride he had once felt watching a much younger Pharaoh take his first steps toward power.
Zahra had always been different — her golden hair, her sun-kissed skin setting her apart from the naturally darker tones and inky black hair of their people. In many ways, she was like the Pharaoh. Different. Singular. Powerful in a way that could never truly be hidden.
His tri-coloured hair, his impossible strength, the ancient power that hummed beneath his skin — Atem had been set apart from birth. Zahra, too, carried that quiet inevitability. Not the same power. But a dangerous one nonetheless.
Zahra's strength lay not only in her surprising physical power, but in her unfathomable loyalty, her sharp mind, her ability to endure what would break others. Soon, she would see the Pharaoh as he saw him — not as a tyrant or a crown, but as a shield. And together, they would be formidable.
The Pharaoh rose to his feet and began ascending the palace steps. The soldiers gestured for Zahra to follow, and she fell into step behind him without hesitation.
Tadal watched as she climbed the stone stairs.
This was the moment.
Soon, she would be presented to the nation, not as his daughter, not as the girl he had raised in laughter and discipline and scraped knees, but as the Pharaoh's Champion.
Soon, it would be time for him to step aside and allow the next generation to move forward.
The thought hollowed his chest.
A tear burned at the corner of his eye as the palace doors began to close, cutting her from view. He did not wipe it away. He had earned this grief.
Darkness was coming. He had felt it in the shifting currents of power, in the way old threats stirred and ancient magic grew restless. There would be enemies Zahra could not outrun. Forces she could not face alone.
And for all his strength, for all his love, he could not always be at her side.
But the Pharaoh would be.
He bowed his head, just slightly, and whispered a promise meant for a woman long gone.
"I have done my best."
He remembered the dying grip of his wife's hand. The weight of a child placed into his arms. A promise made beneath the stars of a place few remembered.
They had raised her as their own.
Ever since he had found her all those years ago.
In the Forgotten Oasis.
The Pharaoh nodded once and gestured for his servants to open the balcony doors.
Light poured in first, blinding and golden, then followed by sound. A living roar surged through the palace stone, the crowd's hunger palpable even from here. Zahra's breath caught. For the first time since the pit, fear rooted her in place.
"Before we go out there," he said calmly, "you should probably tell me your preferred name."
The words struck deeper than she expected.
Zahra shuddered. Something about his voice — measured, unhurried — always knocked her off balance. She bristled, meeting it the only way she knew how.
"Why?" she snapped, chin lifting in challenge. "Is Maahes not good enough for you? Or do you think that because I'm a woman — because I'm different — you can make me feel inferior?" She turned her face away, jaw tight. "I beat every one of those men by myself. With nothing but my father's support."
The Pharaoh did not look at her when he answered.
"It means nothing to me whether you are a woman or not," he said evenly. "I thought, perhaps, you would prefer to be celebrated for who you truly are — not for who you pretended to be."
The words landed cleanly.
Zahra sucked in a sharp breath, the edge of her defiance cracking. Gods. That was the Pharaoh she had just snapped at, a man who could end her life with a single command. Her father's voice echoed in her mind: You'll find he is fair as he is just. And your mouth, Zahra, is quicker than your reflexes.
Never had that felt more true.
The Pharaoh took a step toward the balcony.
"Zahra…" She lowered her head instinctively.
He stopped and turned to face her.
"My name is Zahra," she said, the words quieter now, steadier. "It's what…" Her throat tightened. "It's what my mother chose to call me."
For a moment, he studied her — not as a ruler, not as a master — but as something closer to an equal forced into an uneven game.
He nodded.
"Come, Zahra," he said. "It is time."
Maybe it was the oath she had sworn. Perhaps it was the weight of the moment itself. Or the way it felt to hear her name roll off his tongue. Whatever it was, her feet moved before her fear could catch up.
She stepped into the blinding light.
And into the roar of the nation.