The Pharaoh was aware of the silence that surrounded him.
The moon had waxed and waned since the tournament — since that fateful day — and his Champion was meant to be with him every hour. Yet lately, he had begun to notice anytime she was absent.
Curiosity stirred, and he lifted his gaze from the book resting open in his hands.
The library stretched vast around him, pillars rising toward the ceiling, shelves packed tightly with books, texts, and scrolls chronicling the breadth of their history. If Zahra were here, he would have felt her presence.
She was not.
In those rare moments she disappeared, she was never gone for long.
He lowered his eyes again and turned the page absently, not truly reading. A faint sound drifted in through the open window, too indistinct to identify. A light breeze followed it, stirring the pages, and despite himself, a shiver slid down his spine.
It had been happening more since that time in the training room.
Unbidden, his thoughts returned to it — the feel of her breath against his skin, the way her wrists had fit beneath his hands, pinned above her head. The silken weight of her hair tangled in his grip, the way that he longed to feel it spill freely through his fingers again.
The Pharaoh turned his head sharply, as if the motion alone could quell the heat rising in his body.
Another breeze cooled his skin. The sound came again.
Setting the book aside, he rose and crossed to the window. The view overlooked the palace gardens, lush and vibrant — flowers and trees in full bloom, almost otherworldly against the surrounding desert. He could not remember a time when the gardens had thrived so fiercely.
At a glance, there didn't seem to be anyone outside.
Dismissing it as his imagination, he returned to his book.
The sound grew clearer.
He paused. His ears pricked up.
It almost sounded like someone singing.
His attention sharpened. The voice was beautiful, ethereal, unlike anything he had heard before. He didn't recognise the melody, yet the more he listened, the more certain he became: someone was singing.
With a quiet scold to himself, he picked up his book and left the library, his measured steps echoing through the library until he reached the doors.
A tall, broad-shouldered soldier opened the doors for him with a bow. Atem nodded and stepped outside.
The moment his feet touched the grass, the singing enveloped him — clear as day now. The voice commanded his attention, weaving through the air like something alive.
Who is singing?
The gardens appeared empty at first glance, confusion tightening his brow. Unsatisfied, he followed the sound toward the back wall, where two tall, spindly trees stood apart from the rest.
With each step, the singing grew louder.
As he neared the trees, he noticed a slender foot peeking out from behind one trunk. The bark was warm beneath his palm as he leaned around it.
Zahra sat on the grass in the shade, braiding her hair, singing softly to herself, utterly oblivious to his presence.
In that moment, she was an enigma.
She had traded the white dress Tadal so often insisted she wear for her fight suit — a testament to her strength, her power. She wore it as though it were comfort rather than constraint, sitting casually against the tree as though she belonged nowhere else.
These past days, Atem had often wondered what truly motivated her. She challenged him constantly, belligerent at times, refusing to yield even when it would have been easier to do so. Part of him suspected it stemmed from her need to be seen as she saw herself—strong, dominant, unapologetic.
And yet, as she sat there now, with her knees pressed up against her chest, she looked lonely.
Vulnerable.
She was delicately deadly — like the ocean, beautiful and dangerous in equal measure. Her limbs were smooth, her movements graceful, as though silk itself would slide easily from her skin.
Heat stirred within him.
Since becoming his Champion, their relationship had remained distant. They barely spoke, and when they did, her answers were short, sharp, often edged with sarcasm. She always stood just far enough away, close enough that he caught her scent – fresh, like spring rain – yet far enough to remain guarded. If anyone came too close or entered the room unannounced, she pounced.
That was her duty.
Still, seeing her here, so solemn and lost in herself, struck something in him. She was talented, determined, and her striking beauty was unlike anything he had known.
Perhaps, he thought, the fact that she was different not just within the palace, but within the country itself, was much more of a burden than he realised.
That hair…
His gaze returned to it again as she twisted the braid further down. He had dreamed of it — the way it had slid through his hands during their sparring, soft as a golden waterfall. The shimmer in her golden hair was mesmerising, putting his own polished, golden jewellery to shame. Even when pinned back, loose strands escaped, gleaming like sunlight. Innocent at first glance — yet he knew the clip that held it could just as easily be a weapon.
Those amber eyes, too. They held a fire and passion that he had never seen before.
He was curious about her.
Dangerously so.
Perhaps he should extend an olive branch—
No.
He pulled himself back sharply. He could not let his guard down again. Control had always been his — it had to be. The strength of a nation depended on it.
But that day. That damned day...
Her wrists above her head. Her hair tangled in his grip. Completely at his mercy.
His body betrayed him once.
And it threatened to do so again.
A low growl escaped his chest.
Zahra startled violently, springing to her feet. Her disapproval was immediate and poorly hidden. After the shock passed, her face flushed a deep red, and she looked down, hands clasped tightly before her.
"Forgive me, my Pharaoh," she said stiffly. "I wasn't aware you enjoyed sneaking up on people."
The apology sounded anything but sincere, as she glared at him from underneath her lashes.
Atem met it, fighting the tug at his lips. Drawing a steady breath, he spoke evenly.
"You have been my Champion for some time now, Zahra. Yet you still do not trust me. May I ask why?"
She lowered her head.
He was commanding, unbearably so.
She had no answer. No excuse. There was no reason for her to be treating him the way she did. If she kept this up, he would surely banish her from the palace, or worse.
Yet, for a reason she couldn't seem to remember, she needed to rest, truly rest, and the gardens were the only place she felt she could breathe.
She knew she had to be with him always. That was her duty, and she always kept a respectable distance – a professional distance.
She could never explain why, not when that would mean she would have be honest with him.
Not after the training room.
Not when her thoughts strayed where they shouldn't, whether she was standing at his side, or worse, when she was alone.
Just now, she could have sworn she saw something flash in his eyes, an intense carnal desire. She knew it was her mind playing tricks on her again.
He always looked so intense.
Her shoulders sagged.
"I am sorry. Truly, I am. I wanted to sit outside. You were reading — I didn't think you would miss me for an hour."
She had read somewhere before that the best lies are woven from a bit of truth.
His expression softened.
"Then why don't I sit with you? The gardens are beautiful at this time of year, and the palace can be stifling."
Her smile this time was genuine.
They sat beneath the tree, only a few feet apart. She positioned herself so she could see the entire garden. No one would sneak up on her now.
She watched his eyes flicker across the page. He was so engrossed in this book.
So, she asked about it.
His answer stole her breath.
"The Forgotten Oasis."
Her gasp made him glance up.
"Father, I mean – Tadal, would tell me that story every night when I was a child."
She laughed softly, embarrassed, and explained. "I loved it so much. He used to tell me that The Forgotten Oasis held the secret to the miracle of life. That I was a miracle, and that was where he found me"
The intensity of the Pharaoh's gaze unnerved her. His demanding purple eyes seemed to penetrate to her very soul.
"Silly, isn't it?' she continued, shaking herself free. "Tadal wasn't the father I was born to. He used to tell me stories like that to make me feel better. He always swore they were true." She held the end of her braid, the light blonde hair fanned out. "As you can imagine, I was very different to the other children."
"And your mother? Was she born to you?"
She shook her head.
"Mother used to say that my hair is so golden, it's like the God Ra himself poured sunlight into me." Then she whispered, "I miss her."
"I miss my father too," he said quietly.
He coughed lightly and went back to reading, though his eyes didn't skim the page.
After a moment, he spoke. "You have a beautiful voice, too, Zahra."
She glanced up, and their eyes met for a moment.
The air seemed to charge around them.
Then–
Movement.
Instinct took over. Zahra swept the intruder to the ground in one fluid motion.
Her horror was immediate.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Father. I didn't… I mean…I…"
Tadal rubbed his sore backside as Zahra leapt to her feet to help him up.
"You did nothing wrong," he said warmly. "I shouldn't have snuck up on you both. I thought I heard you singing. You know I always love to listen to you sing."
Zahra bowed her head in respect. Desperately trying to hide her burning cheeks.
"Tell me. What was it you were singing just now?" The Pharaoh asked.
"Just a song I learnt as a child." It was true. She had learnt it as a child, though she didn't exactly know where from.
Tadal turned to the Pharaoh. "My Pharaoh, everything is in order for the Council meeting."
When the subject of the Council arose, irritation flared — sharp and unmistakable. Another meeting, another shadow hanging over the Pharaoh's shoulders.
"Well, my champion, it would seem you can spend a bit longer in the garden. I imagine that's good news for you."
"Actually. It's quite the opposite." She found herself admitting.
The Pharaoh looked at her, curious for a deeper explanation.
Zahra rubbed the back of her neck; every part of her was starting to ache.
"Last time the Council met, you left so upset and angry. I've never seen you like that before. Since then, truth be told, I worry."
His face was stoic at her comment, and she began to wish the ground would open and swallow her whole.
"What do you know about Shadow Games?" He asked after some thought.
Her head tilted.
"Nothing aside from gossip."
He stood and held out his hand.
"Come. There is something we should discuss."
Zahra gazed into his serious face. In this moment, every shred of confidence and defiance melted away.
She took his hand and suddenly noticed the dark clouds rumbling.
They came fast.
Too fast. Rolling like a herd of galloping horses.
She tried to pull the Pharaoh away.
The darkness enveloped.
Pain tore through her.
Suddenly, she was back on sandy grass. Her hand, which a moment ago held the Pharaoh's, was outstretched to nothing.
The image of her father's face contorted in pain bled from the darkness.
"Father!" she screamed.
A voice called her name.
At first, it sounded like her father, then it morphed into something feminine.
Something closer.
Zahra bolted upright in bed, screaming, breath tearing from her lungs. Her body shook violently.
Arms wrapped around her instantly.
"It's okay, baby girl. I'm here."
Mrs Goodtree's voice anchored her, hands stroking her hair until the trembling eased.
"I was so scared," Zahra sobbed.
"I know," she whispered. "I was too, when I first dreamed."
"Dreams?" Zahra breathed.
"Memories," Mrs Goodtree corrected gently. "In your case, past life. In my case, past lives. I've been waiting through the ages for you."
She was so exhausted, she could scarcely register the weight of her words.
Mrs Goodtree stood up and moved to her dresser; the metallic din of the TV filled the room. Then she picked up her bag and money pressed into her hand.
"I've been saving it ever since you left school."
Zahra was speechless; all she could muster was a small whimper as the tears streamed down her face.
"You know where you need to go."
Zahra sobbed even harder. She didn't — not truly.
Until the news bulletin spoke of a tournament in Domino City, she had heard of it; it was the Duel Monsters' capital.
Something clicked.
This wasn't a coincidence.
This was calling.
It might not hold her answers, but it was a good place to start.