Laila walked back through the camp, the weight of a hundred hostile stares pressing against her back. She had spent her entire life admired, worshipped, adored. But here—she was something else entirely.
Hated.
She felt it in every muttered curse, every clenched fist, every set of eyes that burned with the desire to see her bleed.
And yet—there was a lull in the storm.
A small fire flickered near one of the tents, illuminating a woman and two small children. The little boy chewed on a fig, his sticky hands pressing into the dirt, while the girl twirled a date between her fingers, giggling.
They were so small.
So innocent.
The mother noticed her first. Her face hardened, her body stiffening, ready to pull them away as if Laila's very presence was a threat.
But the girl gasped, her wide, kohl-lined eyes filled with something softer.
"She's so pretty."
Laila exhaled sharply.
For a moment—just a breath—she saw them not as the children of her enemies, but simply… children.
And before she could stop herself, she slid the jeweled ring from her finger, kneeling to press it into the girl's palm.
The child's eyes widened as she looked down at the shimmering emerald, her small fingers curling around the delicate gold.
A whisper of gratitude.
A flicker of innocence in a world drowning in war.
And then—the moment ended.
A shadow fell over them.
Laila looked up—and froze.
Amunet stood over her.
Silent. Unyielding. Dangerous.
The firelight carved deep shadows across his sharp, merciless features, his dark eyes unreadable.
His voice, when it came, was a blade dragged across stone.
"You think a piece of gold will erase what your family has done?"
Laila rose to her feet, her spine straight, meeting his disgust head-on.
"I think kindness costs nothing."
He stepped closer.
Too close.
The heat of him burned through the thin linen of her dress, his fury suffocating.
"You think this is kindness?" he hissed. "Your father's policies have killed thousands. My family was butchered in cold blood. And now, you stand here, offering trinkets to the children left behind?"
Laila's anger flared—hot and fast, like a desert storm.
"And your vengeance will drown Egypt in more blood," she spat. "How many more children must suffer to satisfy your wrath?"
Amunet's nostrils flared, his jaw tightening as his fingers curled into tight fists at his sides.
"Better they suffer for freedom," he said, voice low, seething, "than live as slaves to your father."
Laila's breath came fast, her pulse wild—and then, before she could react, his hand was on her wrist.
Hard. Unrelenting.
His fingers dug into her skin, rough, calloused, his grip one of pure possession.
Laila gasped, her free hand immediately pushing at his chest—solid, unmoving, a wall of muscle beneath worn leather and sweat.
Amunet did not budge.
He held her there, his rage a living thing between them, their breath mingling in the charged space that separated them.
"If the only other option is marrying you," he growled, his voice low, dangerous, "then I would rather watch Egypt burn."