Laila ran. Her feet pounded against the sand, her breath sharp as she pushed through the darkness of the camp. Past the dimly lit tents, past the murmuring voices of the rebels. She didn't know where she was going—only that she had to get away.
Away from the letter. Away from her father's command. Away from the truth.
She had been sent here to die. Not as a princess. Not as a queen. But as a weapon. A blade her father had sharpened and tossed into the enemy's hands.
And when she had done what he asked?
There would be no escape.
Her heart slammed against her ribs as she stumbled to a stop at the edge of the camp. The desert stretched before her, vast and endless, bathed in moonlight. The night air burned in her lungs, thick with the scent of sweat and firewood. Then, the vision took her.
The world tilted.
She saw herself, standing in the great city square of Thebes, the grand temples rising behind her.
A crowd of thousands gathered to watch.
The executioner's blade gleamed under the sun.
Her hands were bound.
The blade came down—
A rough hand yanked her back to reality.
Laila gasped, the vision shattering as she was dragged into the shadows.
Laughter. The stench of wine. The scrape of sandaled feet.
She twisted, but the hands gripping her arms held firm.
"Gods have blessed us tonight, brothers," a voice sneered, thick with drink.
Laila's blood ran cold.
Warriors. Rebels. Men who had lost everything to her father's rule.
And now they had found his daughter alone, vulnerable, with no guards to protect her.
A calloused hand slid over the silk at her shoulder, gripping the delicate fabric.
"A royal flower," another voice murmured. "I say we pluck her."
She thrashed, but there were too many hands, too many bodies pressing in, too many voices laughing.
"Let me go," she spat, her voice sharp as flint. "I am the Pharaoh's daughter—"
A sharp laugh cut her off.
"And what is a Pharaoh to us?" one of them sneered. "Nothing but a coward hiding behind his golden walls while we starve."