A week before.
The Pharaoh sat in his chamber, staring at the parchment before him.
The ink had dried on every word except for the final line—the one that mattered most. The one that would send his daughter to her fate.
A warm breeze drifted through the open balcony, carrying the scent of the Nile. It did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest.
Across from him, Queen Nefirah watched in silence, draped in silk so fine it clung to her curves like water. The golden bangles stacked on her wrists gleamed in the lamplight as she picked up the writing brush, dipped it into ink, and held it out to him.
"You are hesitating," she murmured.
The Pharaoh exhaled slowly, rubbing his forehead. "She is my daughter, Nefirah."
"And she is the key to peace," Nefirah said smoothly. She walked toward him, bare feet silent against the stone, then placed her hands on his shoulders, kneading gently.
"You know this. You knew it the moment she left."
He closed his eyes.
He did know it. But knowing did not make it easier.
"If there were another way," Nefirah continued, her breath warm against his ear, "I would take it myself."
The Pharaoh wanted to believe her. He did not ask if she was lying. He did not want to know.
Nefirah was clever—a survivor, a woman who understood that power was a game of sacrifices. She had given him nothing but sons in their short marriage. A new legacy. A future without Laila.
But that did not mean she was wrong.
Nefirah crouched beside him, placing a soft hand over his own.
"Laila is strong," she whispered. "Like her father. She will know what must be done."
The Pharaoh opened his eyes.
Laila had never failed him before.
She would not fail him now.
His fingers tightened around the brush.
He dipped it into the ink.
And at the bottom of the letter, he wrote the words he had written a hundred times before.
I love you, flower.
Nefirah smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple.
The empire would survive.
***
He did not follow her when she left. Had he done so, he would have seen her slip through the hidden corridors of the palace, unseen by the guards. Would have seen her descend into the lower halls, past the statues of forgotten gods, past the torches that burned low. Would have seen her step into another chamber, where a man was already waiting.
General Ammon.
Nefirah's brother.
Her lover.
She closed the door behind her, the heavy wood sealing them inside, shutting out the world.
And then, as if she had waited long enough, she crossed the room in an instant, hands grasping at his chest, his shoulders, his throat.
"You took too long," she breathed against his lips.
Ammon grinned, gripping her waist, pulling her flush against him.
"Patience has never been your virtue."
She laughed softly, tilting her head back as he pressed kisses against her skin.
"Does he suspect?" Ammon murmured.
Nefirah smirked.
"He doesn't want to. That's enough."
Ammon ran his fingers through her dark hair, twining it between his fingers.
"And the girl?"
The Queen's smile darkened.
"On her way to ruin," she said. "She will do as she is told by the King."
Ammon studied her.
"And if she doesn't?"
Nefirah's expression did not change.
"Then Amunet will kill her first."
She sighed, fingers trailing over Ammon's chest, nails digging into his skin.
"And when the rebels are finished with each other," she whispered, pressing her lips to his, "Egypt will be ours."