The words struck like a thunderclap.
The camp exploded in sound—a roar of fury, hunger, triumph.
Laila barely had time to register the shift before she felt them closing in.
Hands. Rough. Calloused. Grabbing at the silk, the gold, the sacred ornaments that marked her as untouchable.
"Strip her of her jewels!" someone shouted. "Let her know what it means to be one of us!"
The hands came closer.
And then—a blade flashed.
A whisper of steel through air.
Amunet's sword came down like a striking viper, stopping just short of the throat of the nearest man.
The camp froze.
Every breath, every movement, held in place by the silent promise of violence.
"Touch her," Amunet said, his voice quiet, too quiet—calm in a way that promised death.
"And I will cut you down where you stand."
The warriors hesitated, caught between rage and the sheer terror that bled into their eyes.
Amunet did not blink. Did not lower his sword.
The silence stretched, pulling tight as a drawn bowstring.
Then—the men stepped back.
Laila's breath came fast and sharp, her pulse hammering against her ribs.
The firelight flickered across Amunet's face, casting his features in harsh shadows and burning gold as he turned to her. His grip on the hilt of his blade did not loosen.
His next words were for her alone.
"There are no gods here, princess."
Cold. Final.
A shiver snaked down her spine, sharp as the blade still gleaming between them.
His voice dipped lower—deadly as a knife pressed to the skin.
"There is only survival."
Laila walked through the gauntlet of their stares, burning with unspoken threats, humiliation, and hunger.
Her back remained straight. Her head stayed high. But her hands trembled.
Inside the tent, the thick scent of myrrh and desert heat curled around her, but it did nothing to soothe the storm beneath her ribs. Hagar was waiting. The moment the tent flap fell shut, Hagar's hands found Laila's shoulders, pulling her into the safety of the dimly lit space.
Laila let herself collapse onto the cushions, every muscle shaking. She pressed her palms to her face, her nails digging into her forehead. "What if they didn't like me?"
The words cracked against the still air.
"What if I failed?" she whispered, voice raw. "What if I have doomed Egypt? I will let my father down. I will let them all down."
Hagar knelt beside her, hands steady, voice unshaken.
"Do you truly believe," she murmured, brushing a strand of damp hair from Laila's forehead, "that any man has ever been indifferent to you?"
Laila let out a shaky breath.
Hagar tilted her chin up, forcing their eyes to meet.
"You walked into a camp of killers," she said, her gaze unwavering. "And they did not tear you apart. They could have thrown you to the ground, dragged you through the dirt like a trophy of war."
Laila swallowed, her throat dry as sand.
"But they didn't."
A flicker of something dangerous and knowing curled at the edges of Hagar's lips.
"Because they saw what every man who has ever looked at you sees."
She leaned closer, whispering, "A queen."
Laila shut her eyes, willing herself to believe it.
To breathe it into existence.
Then—the tent flap rustled.
A guard entered, his head bowed, hands clasped behind his back.
"Prince Khepri requests an audience."