There was a fire burning through her veins.
Every muscle in her body seized and refused to let go, locking her in place as if she were being crushed from the inside out.
The pain.
It was everywhere — in her arms, her chest, her throat — a suffocating, all-consuming agony that felt horrifyingly familiar.
It was too much.
Her eyes were clamped shut, and everything was dark. She drifted in and out of consciousness, caught between the echo of screams and the distant sense of falling.
Until at last, a strange, muffled quiet crept in and cleared the fog.
Slowly, her fists began to unclench. Then her chest loosened, and like a calming wave, her whole body slowly started to ease. Breath returned in shaky pulls. Sensation crept into her fingers… her toes.
But it didn't leave her completely.
It settled deep in her thigh, burning hot and sharp, as if the rest of her body had merely been a path for it to travel.
Gods, what happened to me? Her whole body still ached, but that one spot throbbed with brutal clarity.
She tried to piece her memories back together. The last thing she remembered was a searing pain in her leg. An arrow. Then nothing. How much time had passed? Hours? Days? She had no idea.
As she struggled to regain control of her body, she felt something soft and warm in her palm. Her fingers twitched, and her thumb brushed gently over it, tracing the shape without quite understanding what it was.
Opening her eyes was a whole new problem. They burned as if aflame, as though they might turn to steam the moment the air touched them. She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth when the light hit them, but they adjusted more quickly than she expected, the dim daylight slowly bleeding into focus.
Her whole body both eased and tensed at once.
At the end of her bed lay a slender figure, sprawled face-down, his lower body resting awkwardly on the chair that normally sat in the corner of her room. One arm cradled his head, the other lay softly in her hand. Tri-coloured hair spilt across her shins. His body gently rising and falling with slow, even breaths as he slept on her.
Her thumb moved again, absentmindedly tracing over his knuckles, as though she needed the contact to convince herself this wasn't some half-formed dream.
A soft groan left him as he shifted in his sleep, stretching stiff muscles. Something gave a quiet, inhuman click — he must have been there for some time.
He went still as his sleepy gaze settled on her. Slowly, he lifted his head, eyes finding hers the instant he realised she was awake.
He looked worn… but still handsome.
Not long ago, she'd have scoffed at the idea that he worried for her; it would have felt like an insult to her skill.
Now, seeing him here, at her side, with his hand still holding hers in a gentle yet unyielding clasp, his worry was welcome.
She didn't realise she was smiling until her face began to ache. It quickly vanished when she realised he was looking right at her.
"How do you feel?" he asked, trying and failing to hide the apprehension in his voice.
Aching. Shattered. But finding him at her bedside...
"Ready for anything," she said, and she meant it to some extent.
His face was unreadable, as his gaze travelled over her face, then down the length of her body, checking for signs she was hiding pain. Heat crept up her neck, and she clutched the blanket. It was an effort to keep her breathing steady while being so aware of how closely he was watching her.
"The healers said you would have died if those other arrows had struck you."
Other arrows. She felt a lip curl in confusion.
As if reading her thoughts, he leaned away and picked up something from the table beside her bed.
The cuffs for her left forearm and upper arm, but now there were two fresh dents in the metal. Deep ones. Yet they still gleamed with pride in the dimming light of day spilling through the window.
She tried to sit up and immediately regretted it as her body screamed in protest. A small laugh escaped her through clenched teeth as she managed only to prop herself on her elbows, deciding that's as far as she'd get.
He helped guide the gauntlets into her hands.
Her thumbs traced the cool metal, following the familiar curves until they reached the dents.
Mother… you protected me.
It was only then that the reality truly struck her, how close she had come to dying.
And yet, even knowing her precious mother's gauntlets had been tainted, she felt no regret.
"It's a good thing you have me," she said, something teasing in her tone now as she straightened out her blanket. "Your skin is far too soft. You wouldn't have stood a chance."
Something like amusement glinted in his eyes. "Nothing to do with your oath, then?"
"No," she said firmly, surprising herself with her boldness.
She lifted her eyes, looking at him from under her lashes.
Their gazes locked.
The air between them charged, thick and heavy, and suddenly every defence she had ever built felt frighteningly thin. This sharp-eyed, calculating man had a way of making her forget every rule she had sworn by.
If she kept looking at him, she would forget herself entirely.
His fingers slowly threaded through hers.
Her head snapped up, her mouth parted in surprise.
A faint smile touched his lips, and her thoughts scattered with all the things that smile seemed to promise and not yet say.
He shifted to move again…
"Pharaoh, there's news from our prisoner!"
Seto burst through the doors to her chamber.
The Pharaoh was on his feet in an instant, in answer or in shock. Whatever moment had been forming shattered like glass.
"We have intelligence that could lead us to Bandit King Bakura's hideout," Seto continued, already launching into details.
The ache in her body eased just enough that she managed to sit upright, though she couldn't quite hide the small grimace that followed. Why the interruption irritated her so much, she couldn't say. He was the Pharaoh. It wasn't as though anything would have happened.
And yet…
She rubbed her temples and scolded herself. Silly girl… stop making this a fantasy.
Looking for a distraction, she started to undo the bandage on her leg.
The conversation blurred into distant noise.
"Zahra, you're awake!"
Her head snapped toward the voice, and she gasped as her father hurried in and wrapped her in a fierce embrace. She pressed her face into the curve of his neck and let herself breathe him in, relief flooding through her.
When he finally pulled back, he studied her with worried eyes. "You look pale."
"Thank you, father. I'll make sure to get more sunshine," she said dryly, lifting the edge of her bandage. She already felt strong enough to silently thank the healers for whatever magic they'd worked.
"The Scorching Badlands?"
Her ear trained back to the conversation as her father muttered worries about her being unconscious for as long as she had been.
"… but that's in the middle of the desert–"
"Yes, Pharaoh. I will arrange for a unit to depart at once," Seto said.
Zahra ran her fingers over the small puncture on her thigh, strangely awed by it. Such a tiny wound… for so much pain.
She picked up her gauntlets, clipping them back on, jiggling them until the dented metal settled into place.
"That may not be wise," the Pharaoh said firmly. "This could be a trap meant to draw our forces away. A smaller unit would be better."
His gaze sharpened. "I will be the one to lead it."
"Pharaoh, please—" Seto began.
The Pharaoh raised a hand and turned toward the door.
"Wait!"
Zahra swung her legs over the bed and placed her feet on the floor, bracing herself to stand, her arms shaking under her weight.
"You can't go," Tadal scolded immediately. "You're still recovering." A father speaking to his child.
"That's right," the Pharaoh added, his voice stern now. "You need rest."
"Yes, well, someone has to make sure you don't do something stupid," she shot back, swatting Tadal's hand aside as she steadied herself.
She needed to do this herself. Needed to show everyone, and herself, that she could.
Her head swayed, but she caught herself and took a few steps forward. They were shaky, but she felt confident she hid it well enough.
"Zahra, get back in–"
The Pharaoh's command got cut off.
"Remember that oath?" she stormed past him and shouted over her shoulder as she continued away, afraid that if she stopped, her knees might buckle.
"I get the bigger horse."
****
"Once we cross this dune," he called over the wind, breath hard as their horses thundered forward, "we'll be in the Badlands."
"Badlands," Zahra echoed. "Quite the obvious place for bad guys to be, wouldn't you say?"
She could have sworn there was a distant puff of laughter travelling on the wind, from the horse ahead of her.
He pulled his horse to a stop at the crest of the dune.
The last embers of sunlight glinted off his polished jewellery as the land fell away before them.
This desert was nothing like the rolling sands near the city. Below stretched a wasteland of jagged rock outcrops like shattered teeth, broken ridges jutting from the earth at cruel angles. Patches of loose sand had gathered in the hollows between them, pale drifts nestled in narrow channels where the wind whispered through stone, carrying thin trails of dust across the ground.
Dead scrub clung to cracks in the rock, twisted and brittle, as though even the desert itself was struggling to breathe here.
The sand travelled on the wind and settled on the barren ground.
"I don't see anyone," the Pharaoh said, eyes scanning the maze of stone and shadow. "Obviously, an attempt to draw men away from the palace. Still… we should look. See if anything has been left behind."
Something about this place seemed… wrong.
Zahra couldn't put her finger on it, only that the silence pressed too tightly against her ears, and the air felt expectant, like a held breath.
This doesn't seem right.
There was nothing here but rock and sand. No tracks. No fires. No signs of an encampment. Even with the light fading, that much was obvious.
Why send us here at all? A question she couldn't let go of.
This was the middle of nowhere.
If the goal was to pull forces from the palace, no one was waiting to strike. Anyone sent here would turn back within the hour. Not enough time to launch any real attack and storm the gates, even with half the forces gone.
The Pharaoh urged his horse forward and dismounted, boots crunching against gravel as he kicked aside loose stones and searched the horizon.
Zahra followed, her horse's hooves sinking in the fresh sand between the rocks of this ever-changing landscape. The sound echoed strangely in the narrow channels, bouncing off stone and ringing in her skull.
A din that set her mind free.
No, an army of men could never hide here.
They would have been seen immediately.
But—
Not an army.
A small team, however…
Her eyes followed a breeze carrying stray sandy grains through a hollow where sand had gathered too neatly between two rocks. The breeze swept through the channel, lifting a faint ripple across its surface.
The sand… shifted.
Not like wind.
Like something breathing beneath it.
Her blood went cold.
"We're not alone!" she shouted, sprinting for the Pharaoh and backing him into a corner between two rock spires.
The ground seemed to erupt.
Canvas and cloaks tore free as men burst upward, sand sliding off their shoulders and masks as they ripped themselves from shallow scrapes in the earth. Figures rose from every hollow and ridge, weapons already in hand — six, seven, eight—
And more.
Bandits shouted and cracked whips, sending their horses screaming into the wasteland. In seconds, escape was gone.
They closed in with slow, confident steps, smiles sharp beneath layers of dust.
"King Bakura will be glad to hear his plan worked so perfectly," one of them cackled.
"Silly little Pharaoh," another sneered. "Who will save him now?"
The bandits sniggered in unison. Their laughter echoed between the rocks, ugly and hungry.
"I will."
Zahra snatched up a fallen length of wood from the ground, gripping it tight as she stepped in front of him and swung. The staff cut through the air with a sharp whistle, forcing the nearest bandits back. It was surprisingly sturdy, flexible and balanced. Good enough.
"Oh, this one's got spirit," a man chuckled, eyes glinting with cruel delight. "I think we'll enjoy breaking it."
Zahra's breath had been a steady beat.
She had no idea how long she'd need to hold this position for, but she was bred for battle – that something in her bones had always known how to stand when the world came rushing in to break her.
Her staff cut through the air, cracking against skulls and shoulders, wiping smug grins clean from dust-streaked faces.
She quickly realised that these were not ordinary bandits.
Most fought wild and desperate, sloppy with fear and hunger. These men moved with intent. They flanked. They covered one another. They pressed forward in pairs, forcing her to shift and react.
She struck one down, and another instantly filled the space.
Then one looked up and grinned.
Whipping her head around, steel flashed from above.
Too fast –
Light exploded in front of her.
The Pharaoh had stepped between them, golden radiance blazing as the DiaDhank unfurling across his arm like living fire. The bandit screamed, dropping his sword as he collapsed, clutching at his eyes.
"You've seen the light," Zahra growled, driving her heel into the man's face, "now witness the darkness."
He didn't get back up.
"I'll hold these ones back," he shouted, power rippling outward as he surged forward — placing himself squarely between her and the swarm.
Zahra nodded, already staring down her next mark.
She didn't argue. She trusted him.
And knowing he was behind her — alive, standing, fighting — snapped something fierce and reckless loose in her chest.
Then I won't hold back either.
Some of the bandits still wore sand-stained masks, canvas pulled tight over their faces from lying in wait beneath the dunes.
She could see straight through them now.
Left-handed, start with the bandit to the right.
Her body moved before thought could catch up.
She slammed into the first man, knocking the breath from his lungs, then wrenched his arm upward as the second swung. It was almost too easy. Blades shrieked together, the sound sharp and ugly in her ears.
She never fought to kill.
Only to educate.
Always to win.
People always underestimated her.
Today, that would be fatal.
She kicked one man back into another, dropped low, and snatched up the fallen sword. The weight of it thrummed through her palm — heavy, alive, humming with violence. She ran her palm over it, teasing herself with the impressive sharpness.
Malice and ill-intent seemed to emanate from it
Her blood soared.
Yes… unfamiliar.
But she would make it hers.
She drove forward, cutting a path through dust and blood, leaving bodies scattered in her wake.
Behind her, the Pharaoh's voice thundered, power crashing through stone and flesh alike. Men screamed — not in pain alone, but in terror.
She barely heard them.
This was what she knew.
This was what she savoured.
The feel of men crumbling at her presence. Watching their perverted faces twist into terror as she overpowered them.
The song in her blood climbed — rising, roaring, unstoppable.
Time vanished.
Sunlight bled from the sky.
Stars should have followed.
But when she finally caught her breath and looked up—
There were none.
The sky had turned dull and colourless, like it was being swallowed.
Something's wrong—
The wind surged. Not a breeze. A wall.
Sand tore across her skin, stinging like needles, scratching across her cheeks, her arms, her eyes. She cried out and raised an arm, grit burning beneath her.
The Pharaoh called for her.
"I'm okay," she shouted back. "That's the last of them!"
She turned. He wasn't there. She couldn't see him at all.
Couldn't hear him over the rising howl.
Then she heard it — the sound of bodies hitting stone.
A grunt.
His.
Her heart lurched. She followed the sounds of the grappling and grunts.
Just then, the wind picked up behind her and seemed to howl in her ears.
A sandstorm.
It was getting closer.
The wind was blowing straight into her face, blowing out her hair and trying to push her back. She held up an arm to see.
As she neared, vision blurred through tears and dust, she saw him on the ground between two rocks, a bandit straddling him, both hands locked around a dull blade, driving down toward his chest.
Her scream was swallowed by the circling storm.
"No—!"
Her body moved before fear could finish the thought.
She lifted her arm to shield her vision and forced herself forward, legs burning, heart hammering.
His grunts became more desperate.
He was losing strength.
She willed her body to move faster, lowering her arm for more momentum.
The storm clawed at her, sand slashing into her face, into her eyes, stealing breath from her lungs, scraping until every blink burned.
She never took her eyes off the man as she stooped low and smashed her full weight into his attacker.
It was everything she had.
It had to be enough.
The man flew sideways into the rock. Sounds of cracking bone followed.
This can't be how it ends…
The Millennium Puzzle dug painfully into his ribs, each breath a shallow, ragged scrape of air. His elbows locked, and muscles burning beneath the crushing weight on his chest.
He felt the last of his strength drain away.
The blade pressed closer.
His vision dimmed at the edges, not from darkness—but from exhaustion.
And then his thoughts went to her.
Zahra. With that infuriating, victorious smile every time she beat him at chess. The determined crease between her brows when she trained, jaw set, daring the world to try her. Hair bright as sunrise. Eyes worth more than any jewel his kingdom had ever possessed.
He wanted—desperately—to hold her hand again.
There was no time to tell her how unbearable it was, seeing her so still, so lifeless in that chamber. How every breath since had felt like borrowed air. How grateful he was—more than he had a right to be—that she had opened her eyes again.
The tip of the blade bit through fabric, biting into skin.
He would never forget her.
How she laughed. How she fought. How she smelled—
That scent, like the first breeze of spring, he could smell it even as the wind began to rise, carrying sand into his mouth, his eyes, his lungs.
So, this is how it ends, then.
Zahra, I–
A flash of gold tore through the storm.
The weight vanished.
Air crashed back into his chest as he sucked in a desperate breath, coughing, choking, dragging himself upright.
"Zahra!" he shouted, voice raw, breaking as he called her name again and again.
Through the thickening veil of sand, he saw her—golden hair bent low, body shaking as she coughed and gagged, barely upright. Beyond her, a dark shape fled into the storm and was swallowed whole.
He didn't care.
He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled.
Her cries cut through the wind, weak but unmistakable—his name, over and over, torn from her throat.
"I'm here," he gasped, reaching for her. "Zahra, I'm here."
Her arm flung out blindly, fingers clawing at empty air. He caught her wrist, then pulled her fully into him, wrapping her tight against his chest as the storm screamed around them.
She sobbed, shaking, words lost to the wind and pain.
He didn't care about the storm. About the enemy. About anything beyond the fact that she was still breathing.
"Zahra," he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers. "We need to take cover. Stay with me."
He tore his cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around her, folding her into its shelter before dropping to his knees and digging into the sand with bare hands, carving out space as the storm tore at his back like a wild beast.
When the hollow was deep enough, he dragged her down with him, curling around her under the cloak, shielding her with his body, his arms locked tight around her trembling form.
Still sobbing.
Above them, the wind howled like wolves.
Beneath it, there was only her.
Still, he held her.
They breathed the same air. He could feel her heartbeat stuttering against his ribs, could feel every shiver that tore through her frame.
He pressed his lips to her forehead, murmuring soft, steady sounds he didn't remember learning but somehow felt right. He soaked up her scent, coated in a vulnerability he had never seen before.
She burrowed closer, fingers clutching at his robe, face pressed to his chest. Strands of her hair slipped through his fingers, warm and impossibly real.
And in that moment, trapped in sand and shadow, with death still prowling just beyond their fragile shelter, he knew with perfect, terrifying clarity: he would face any storm, any darkness.
Any god itself—
So long as he could keep her here, like this, in his arms.