The light still burned behind her eyes as her feet hit stone. The roar had reduced to a distant thunder, but the flash still burned bright behind her eyes.
The sound of her bare feet slapping against stone echoed through the palace as her vision finally cleared.
Zahra bounded down the golden hallways, glare sharp beneath her scrunched brow. Her pace was fast enough that the guards stationed along the walls barely had time to straighten, layered shoulder armour clinking as they snapped to attention.
She ignored them.
Usually, she would have offered a nod — a quiet acknowledgement of shared duty — but she was far too angry for that now.
I need to hit something. Now.
Her heaving lungs and pumping muscles did nothing to quell the storm brewing inside of her; she was spoiling for a fight. If anything, it fed it. A fleeting, vicious thought crossed her mind: stealing one of the guards' polished spears and bringing the whole legion down on her at once.
At least that might be a challenge.
She scoffed at herself and shook the rage from her shoulders.
Zahra was the Pharaoh's Champion now — an entirely different rank to the soldiers who guarded his halls. They never bothered her, and she never bothered them. That was the unspoken rule.
She shoved open the tall double doors and strode into the training room.
The heavy stone doors groaned as they swung open.
She froze.
Tadal stood inside.
So did the Pharaoh.
Whatever conversation they had been having died the moment she entered.
Zahra would have masked her surprise. This time, she was too late. Her raised brows and parted lips betrayed her before she could stop them. With a sharp huff, she turned on her heel instead and stalked towards the small table set against the wall.
The palace training room was technically reserved for the guards — a place to hone discipline and skill.
As soon as Zahra had taken up permanent residence, they'd all but vacated it entirely.
It turned out that sparring with the largest warrior one could find, allowing him a few hopeful blows, and then breaking his arm had a way of earning a reputation.
Fine by her.
In these tedious days that passed, it was mostly just her, which was more than fine.
Absolutely fine.
Not boring at all…
She grabbed a length of white cloth from the table and began wrapping her knuckles. Old grains of sand were embedded deep in the fabric, scratching against her skin like glass. She huffed under her breath. A visit to the Marketplace was needed.
Being the Champion didn't earn her much freedom — nearly every waking hour was spent at the Pharaoh's side. Except, of course, when he attended council meetings.
Meetings she was never invited to.
The thought made her yank the cloth tighter
than she cared to let on.
Why wasn't she invited?
She was the Pharaoh's Champion.
Recently, there have been more of these Council meetings. Priests. Nobles. Apprentices, even. All were granted an audience.
All. Except her.
It was the only place he went where she could not follow. Her father always brushed it off with gentle excuses — too boring, too much talking, nothing for you to worry about.
But Zahra knew better.
It was because she didn't have magic within her. Or money. Or a title. Or any influence at all.
Even though she stood just outside, still, something about being separated from his side made her skin prickle. There were no windows in there, so she had no hope of scaling the palace walls and eavesdropping.
The last council meeting had left the Pharaoh seething — pacing the gardens for hours, fury barely leashed. She'd followed silently until he calmed.
And now—
She realised they were still standing there, neither man speaking.
Irritation flared.
Keeping her back to them, she said coolly, "It seems I interrupted your after-council talks."
With her back still her shield, she pulled the cloth around her knuckles, tight enough to sting.. "Forgive me."
Tadal grunted to himself. His spirited young daughter had a tongue like a whip.
The training chamber still smelled of sand and sweat, sunlight slanting through the high lattice windows in gold-edged bars. He had stood in rooms like this all his life — chambers of strategy, of violence, of power — and yet none of them had ever felt so unforgiving as they did now.
He exhaled slowly, hands clasped behind his back.
She had grown into herself too quickly.
In the white dress, she looked regal — not softened by it, not diminished. Zahra had never allowed clothing, tradition, or expectation to tame her. Even as an infant she had refused shoes, kicking them away with indignant little feet until his wife laughed and said, Let her touch the world. She needs to feel where she stands.
That had never changed.
She still needed the earth beneath her. Still needed truth, even when it hurt.
He had trained her body because it was the only thing he could control. Had taught her restraint, balance, discipline — not to dull her power, but to keep it from consuming her too soon. The scars she bore were light compared to what might have been.
Compared to what was coming.
Thankfully, her immense skill and rank as Pharaoh's Champion were enough to keep her safe, for now.
What will become of her when my time comes?
The guilt was unbearable. He had lied to his only child, and it made her feel that she was inferior to the priests and guardians who also protected the Pharaoh. She thought it was because she was not a sorceress and had no magic within her.
That couldn't be further from the truth.
Watching her as she walked to the training pit, his gaze drifted to the Pharaoh.
Atem.
Tadal had served him since boyhood, had watched grief carve him into something sharper, lonelier, more formidable than any ruler before him. He knew the darkness in that man as intimately as he knew his own.
Which was precisely why he trusted him.
Not because Atem was gentle.
But because he was vigilant.
Because when the world turned its eye toward Zahra — and it would — she would need someone powerful enough to stand between her and them.
She was not safe among the council. Perhaps she never will be.
Suppose the people who conspired against the Pharaoh knew of her powers. It would surely seal his daughter's fate, just like Mahad and the others…
He hadn't wanted this life for her, not chains, golden or otherwise, around the girl he had carried home from the Forgotten Oasis, swaddled in cloth too large for her tiny frame. He had wanted laughter. Freedom. Ordinary joys.
But fate had never been kind to those touched by power.
There was always a reason the Gods granted wishes.
Magic and miracles alike always come with a price.
He swallowed, jaw tightening.
Soon, he would have to step aside. Soon, his voice would no longer be enough to shield her. The signs were already there, the tremors beneath the world, the stirrings he dared not name aloud.
And Zahra… Zahra was not meant to be hidden.
She was meant to endure.
He closed his eyes briefly, pressing his thumb against his ring, his wife's ring, grounding himself.
Protect her, he had promised.
And if that meant placing her beside a man forged by loss, burdened by duty, and strong enough to recognise danger when it looked him in the eye…
Then so be it.
As he watched his daughter punch thin air, flipping and spinning with a feline grace, he was reminded of his wife. The fear of leaving his young daughter was crippling.
"Watch her," he murmured. "Protect all that I love."
Whether he was speaking to the Gods, or to the man who now stood between his daughter and the storm, he did not know.
All he knew was that the darkness was coming.
And Zahra would not face it alone.
Not as long as he was breathing.
And not even when he stopped.
Tadal said goodbye to the Pharaoh and his daughter, then bowed and left.
Zahra concentrated her breathing as she launched into a roundhouse and landed lightly on her feet. A swirl of sand followed her movement in the air and fell like a golden veil to the ground.
The echo of the door closing lingered longer than it should have. The training chamber felt larger now.
Quieter.
More dangerous.
Atem remained where he was at the edge of the pit, arms folded across his chest, gaze fixed on her with an intensity that made the fine hairs along her spine lift.
"Impressive form," he said at last. "You have a lot of heart for physical combat. But your footing favours aggression over balance."
His deep voice boomed off the heavy golden walls of the chamber. He commanded every inch. Every stone.
Heart? She pondered his choice of words. Many would say that she had a lot of strength, determination or power. Never heart. She herself always felt an urge inside her to protect and fight. It wasn't about breaking jaws.
Her mother's word echoed in her mind.
Strength is something that comes from a heart that wants to help others.
Zahra's mouth twitched.
"Aggression wins fights."
"Only when the opponent is careless."
For some reason, that comment caught her guard, and she went limp as she faced him.
"Those gauntlets. Are they also your mother's?"
Zahra flinched. She had never told him that the jewellery she occasionally adorned was her mother's. It must have been Father, she dismissed it.
She held out her arms and marvelled at the golden cuffs that covered almost her entire forearm. They were solid and gave good protection when blocking weapons or sharp blades. So far, they weren't even scratched; it was a testament to her speed and skill in combat, and her mother's before her.
They were tight against her young skin on occasion, a little too tight in the scorching heat when her body swelled.
"Yes, my Pharaoh. They were –"
Before she could finish, he stepped into the pit.
The movement was unhurried, almost lazy, and yet the sand barely shifted beneath his feet. It unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Zahra lowered to her knees, grabbed a handful of sand and rubbed it into the palms of both hands, casually waiting to find out what the Pharaoh thought he was doing. This was no man's land. An area where rank and standing at the palace were something you left at the heavy stone doors before you entered.
This was the pit.
This was her territory.
After what felt like minutes of silence, her impatience got the better of her.
"So, my Pharaoh. Since you are in the training room and the training pit, am I to assume that you wish to train?"
There were rumours of his strength, specifically about his magic rather than his physical strength. Perhaps now she could see for herself and put her own theories to the test.
There was an impish glint in her eyes at the thought.
He discarded his sandals, then his cloak, the fabric whispering as it slid from his shoulders. Leaving him in nothing more than his underskirt, which looked well-made and laundered to perfection. The gold at his throat caught the light, and the Puzzle resting against his chest glowed like an eye that never closed.
Zahra looked away first.
Annoyed at herself, she fought back her blush the only way she knew how, with a snide remark.
"I bet you don't even wrinkle the sheets, do you?"
"You can't wrinkle Egyptian silk," he retorted.
Zahra felt her shoulders collapse into hysterics.
Now this. This was certainly not boring.
"I hope you don't expect me to go easy on you," she said, circling him. "This pit doesn't care who you are."
A corner of his mouth curved, and the air shifted.
Good.
She dropped instinctively into her stance.
Let him see her as she was.
A faint breeze brushed against her cheeks.
The fist came from her blind side.
Zahra twisted just in time, his knuckles grazing her skin as she slipped past the strike. Sand shifted beneath her feet as she countered, sweeping low for his balance.
A sly grin touched his mouth.
Her leg vanished from beneath her.
The world tipped violently, her back slamming into the sand as the breath tore from her lungs.
Before she could understand how the world had tilted sideways, the Pharaoh was on her —not crushing, not violent, but immovable.
His weight locked her to the pit, wrists trapped above her head, knees braced at her sides. The heat of his bare skin pressed into hers, steady and controlled, his presence absolute.
Zahra sucked in air, her chest rising sharply beneath him as she strained against his grip. It was useless. His hold was precise, disciplined, infuriatingly calm.
She had never felt strength like this.
Not brute force.
Command.
His gaze pinned her as thoroughly as his body did, dark and searching, as though he were memorising the way she resisted.
She was always by his side, but now he was so close.
Too close. His breath grazed against her collarbone. Cinnamon and myrrh filled her lungs. The Pyramid Prism swung free, cool against her abdomen, its weight a reminder of exactly who held her down.
Her lungs suddenly had no air, and she took a shuddered breath as she felt his body shift on hers.
Her body betrayed her, warmth spreading where she did not want it.
He must have felt it too. And for the first time–
His composure fractures.
Just for a breath.
No.
This was her domain.
The Pharaoh might rule the land, but here, in sand and sweat and breath, she was sovereign.
Zahra forced herself to still.
There must be a way to make him fracture again…
Then she smiled.
"My Pharaoh," she murmured, lips parting just enough, voice softened to silk. "What have I done to deserve such… thorough punishment?"
Nothing.
Not a word. Not a smile.
But his grip tightened, ever so slightly, as though her voice had struck something raw.
Encouraged, she tilted her head, breath deepening deliberately, her body pressing just enough to disrupt his centre.
"Who would have thought," she continued softly, biting her lip, "that the solemn and powerful Pharaoh could be so… passionate."
A breeze lifted through the open window. Strands of her golden hair slipped free, tangling briefly in his fingers.
His eyes widened.
Now.
She moved with lightning speed, twisting her hips, shifting her weight as sand exploded beneath them. His palms slicked just enough — the sand she'd worked into her skin doing its job — and she slipped free, reversing the hold in a sharp, fluid motion.
In the next heartbeat, she straddled him, knees locking his hips, her weight settled and unyielding.
Only then did the realisation strike her.
He hadn't underestimated her.
He had let it happen.
The thought sent a jolt through her sharper than victory.
"Well," she said lightly, catching her breath as she glanced down at him, at the strength coiled beneath his calm exterior, "you've had a glimpse of what it's like to see things from my perspective."
She rose smoothly, stepping back as he stood in the same breath, neither of them breaking eye contact.
"Your magical abilities may be unbounded," she added, unable to resist, "but your physical strength leaves much to be desired."
He laughed — low, surprised.
"Never mistake restraint for weakness."
"I couldn't agree more."
To her surprise, they both laughed, low and genuine.
And in that sound, something irrevocable began.
After a brief training session in which Zahra gave him sound advice on defending himself, she ended with a note her father often said to her.
"These strategies are not just for your physical strength. They'll help your mental strength too."
Her features fell into a soft, forgiving glow. "They'll also serve you well with your magic." She added.
"Thank you."
Something about what he said made a warmth spread through her. It felt good to help.
"You are most welcome, my Pharaoh. I gave an oath to protect you, and I will honour that."
The sand settled slowly around them.
Suddenly, her head pounded. She felt her eye twitch.
The Pharaoh straightened, retrieving his discarded cloak from the edge of the pit. He moved with unhurried precision, as though the exchange had cost him nothing at all.
Zahra rolled her shoulders, grounding herself, pushing the heat from her blood back into her limbs. The training pit felt smaller now — not because of him, but because she was aware of him in a way she hadn't been before.
That irritated her more than it should have.
And yet she still had more to say.
"You could have ended that sooner," she said, crossing her arms. "If that were a real fight."
His mouth curved faintly. "If this were a real fight, I would not have stepped into your territory without preparation."
She snorted. "Careful. That almost sounded like respect."
"It was."
That stopped her.
He met her gaze evenly, no humour in his eyes now. "You fight to protect. Not to dominate. That is… uncommon."
Her jaw tightened. "It shouldn't be."
"No," he agreed quietly. "But it is."
Silence settled between them, not awkward, but charged, as though the air itself were listening.
She became suddenly aware of the marks left on him: faint abrasions at his wrist, sand clinging to his shoulder, the quickened rise and fall of his chest he hadn't quite mastered yet.
She'd done that.
The thought unsettled her.
He adjusted the chain of the Pyramid Prism at his throat, fingers lingering for a fraction too long. When he looked back at her, something had shifted — not softened, exactly, but sharpened.
"You are wasted in ceremony," he said. "And ill-suited to obedience."
Her brows rose. "You say that as though it's a flaw."
"It is," he replied. "In everyone but you."
She laughed once, short and incredulous. "Careful, my Pharaoh. You'll give me ideas."
"I expect you already have them."
Their eyes locked again, the tension coiling tighter, something unspoken pressing between them.
Then he stepped back.
Deliberately.
The distance felt… wrong.
"You are dismissed," he said, voice returning to its formal cadence. "Rest. Heal. Tomorrow, your duties begin again."
She tilted her head. There was that slight twinge again.
"And if I don't rest?"
"Then you'll fight at half strength," he replied coolly. "And that would insult us both."
That earned him a reluctant smile.
"Yes, my Pharaoh."
She turned to leave, then paused.
"For what it's worth," she added without looking back, "you're not what I expected."
His answer followed her like a shadow.
"Nor are you, Zahra. Now, rest."
Her head felt like it would split. She wanted to place her hands on her temple to ease the pain, but they wouldn't move.
"As you command—"
Her voice stretched, thinned—
—and shattered.
The pit blurred. The gold dulled. Atem's face slipped out of focus, his voice arriving a heartbeat too late.
The Prism flared.
Not gold, but white.
The sand beneath her feet hardened.
Cooled. And became stone.
Darkness swallowed her. Not the soft kind you get with sleep. It slammed into her like a closed fist.
Zahra's mind felt battered, as though she had been struck again and again. Cold bit into her knees. Damp stone pressed through thin fabric, water seeping into her clothes. She sucked in a breath that scraped her lungs raw and heard herself grunt in pain.
She tried to open her eyes, but agony detonated behind them, her vision blurring into useless smears of shadow and light.
"Those are but a few of your past memories."
The voice was wrong.
Too calm. Too measured.
Yet familiar.
Zahra hissed, forcing her eyes open just enough to see the silhouette of a man standing where no man should have been
The man with the key. She realised with a start.
"Wh—what are you even talking about?" she snapped, the pain receding just enough for anger to rush in and take its place. "Past memories?"
The man regarded her as one might regard a puzzle already solved.
"He needs you again," he said simply. "Go. Find him."
Her temper flared. "Find who?" She pushed herself up onto one knee, the world tilting unpleasantly. "Look, pal, you're going to need to either start making a lot more sense—"
She swallowed, grimacing.
"—or leave me the hell alone."
His mouth curved faintly. Not a smile.
"The answers will come," he said, already fading, "the closer you get."
And then he was gone.
Not vanished.
Just… Gone.
Zahra staggered to her feet, knocking over bins and loose crates stacked against the alley wall. Metal clattered loudly, echoing far too much in the narrow space. She caught herself against the ledge of a shop's back window, fingers digging into splintered wood as she fought the lingering vertigo.
Her knees throbbed. Her jaw ached.
The man she had knocked out lay motionless where he'd fallen, sprawled in the shallow water pooling along the stones. Slowly, carefully, she drew in a breath and another, grounding herself.
The pounding in her head dulled to a heavy ache.
She glanced down the alley. No sand.
She lifted her arms. No golden gauntlets.
Just scraped skin and trembling fingers.
And yet—
She rubbed at her jaw, wincing.
Every blow had felt real.
Every breath. Every impact. As though she had been there.
"What," she muttered hoarsely, "the fuck just happened?"
A groan sounded behind her.
The men were beginning to stir.
Zahra didn't hesitate.
She snatched up her backpack and bolted, boots slapping hard against wet stone as she tore out of the alley, her legs unsteady but moving, carrying her away before questions could catch up.