Laila had barely caught her breath from Amunet's attack, the ghost of his blade still burning against her skin, when Khepri entered her tent.
Warm smiles. Measured grace.
Where Amunet was a blade, Khepri was a diplomat—his presence smooth as poured honey, his golden eyes sharp as a falcon's.
He stepped inside as if he owned the space, his white linen tunic loose at the collar, the gold chain at his throat catching the flickering light of the oil lamps.
He bowed—just enough to be polite, never enough to suggest submission.
"My sincerest apologies for my brother," he said smoothly. "I assure you, his outburst was not personal. But you, Princess..." He let the word linger. "You handled yourself... beautifully."
Laila did not answer.
Her pulse was still racing from the clash with Amunet, but now—for an entirely different reason.
Khepri sighed as though disappointed, stepping closer, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.
"You are a remarkable woman, Laila." His voice curled around her name like silk. "It is no wonder that you were sent. It is no wonder that this war must end with you."
She tensed. "Then we are agreed—the bloodshed must stop."
He nodded. But the flicker in his gaze told her this would not be so simple.
"We are." Then, his voice dipped lower, like a whispered prayer in the dark. "But the question remains... how?"
She knew the answer before he even spoke it.
"Your father has no son," Khepri continued, beginning to pace around her, a hunter taking slow, deliberate steps around his prey. "His only heir is you. And whomever weds you... will be the next Pharaoh."
The words settled between them, thick and weighted, like a coiled serpent poised to strike.
Khepri stopped pacing, turning to her fully now. His golden gaze was intent, sharp as a blade glinting under the sun.
"The Queen will not wait forever," he murmured. "She will bear him an heir, and when she does, your worth in this war will be reduced to nothing."
Laila opened her mouth—to question, to refute, to delay—but then Khepri moved closer.
And did the unthinkable.
He dropped to one knee. A marriage proposal. So soon.
Laila barely had time to breathe, let alone process the weight of it all.
Khepri smiled at her hesitation, his voice a murmur of amusement.
"Overwhelmed?"
Laila narrowed her eyes. "I've had my life threatened and a proposal in the span of ten minutes, Khepri. Forgive me if I require time to think."
He chuckled, low and rich, standing again with a slow, deliberate ease.
"Of course."
But then—his head tilted.
The amusement in his gaze darkened into something else.
Something more.
"But know this," he murmured, stepping into her space.
Laila went still.
Khepri leaned in slightly—not close enough to touch, but close enough to be felt.
"This is not merely about duty."
His fingertips brushed the edge of her wrist, so fleeting, so infuriatingly light, but it sent a sharp thrill through her spine.
Laila's breath hitched.
"I wanted you the moment I saw you," he continued, his voice dipping lower. "And I know this: soon, my brothers will want you as well."
His gaze flickered over her like an appraisal, slow and deliberate, lingering on the exposed skin of her throat, the delicate line of her collarbone.
"I would rather be the first in every way."
Then, without another word, he turned—and was gone.