The prison cell was damp and smelled of rot. Cleopatra sat in the corner, her hands still bound, her once-beautiful garments reduced to filthy rags.
She had never known such filth. Never known such a cold.
Her palace had been adorned with gold, her baths perfumed with oils. Now, rats scurried across the stone floor, their tiny claws scraping in the darkness.
She inhaled sharply, steadying herself.
"I am still Cleopatra. I am still a queen."
But was she?
Her brother had stripped her of everything—her crown, her title, her dignity. The people who once bowed to her had turned their backs.
She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms.
She should have seen this coming. Akhenaten had always been ambitious. Always envious. She had underestimated him, believing that blood would protect her.
Foolish.
A sudden noise broke her thoughts.
Footsteps.
She tensed.
They grew louder, echoing through the corridor. Then, the scrape of a key in the lock.
The heavy iron door swung open, revealing a guard. Two others stood behind him, their expressions unreadable.
"On your feet," one of them ordered.
Cleopatra didn’t move. "Where are you taking me?"
No answer.
Rough hands grabbed her arms, yanking her upright.
"Let go of me!" she hissed, struggling, but their grips were like iron.
She was dragged through the dimly lit passageways of the dungeon, the stone beneath her bare feet cold and unforgiving.
When they emerged into the blinding sunlight, she squinted, heart pounding.
Then she smelled it.
Salt. Fish.
The docks.
She sucked in a sharp breath.
Men shouted orders as crates were hauled onto wooden ships. Seagulls cried overhead, their wings casting fleeting shadows on the ground.
A terrible realization clawed at her.
"No."
She dug her heels into the ground. "No, no, no!"
The guards didn’t stop.
She was dragged forward, toward a man standing near one of the ships. He was tall, his skin weathered by years at sea. His eyes, dark and calculating, raked over her like a buyer inspecting livestock.
A trader.
"Ah," the man mused, tilting his head. "This is the one?"
"She is," one of the guards confirmed.
Cleopatra’s stomach twisted.
"What is this?" she demanded.
The trader chuckled. "You don’t recognize the chains of a slave?"
The world tilted.
No.
This couldn’t be happening.
"You cannot do this!" she spat. "I am of royal blood!"
The first guard smirked. "Not anymore, you’re not."
The trader reached out, grasping her chin. He turned her face side to side, inspecting her features with an appraising eye.
"She’s beautiful," he remarked. "She will fetch a fine price."
Cleopatra wrenched herself free, fury blazing in her veins. "I am Cleopatra! Daughter of Ptolemy! You will not dare sell me like cattle!"
The trader laughed, deep and amused. "Your name means nothing here, girl. You are not in a palace now."
She thrashed against the guards, but it was useless.
The trader’s gaze flickered toward a nearby fire pit, where a branding iron rested in the embers.
"We mark all our slaves," he said casually.
Cold dread slid down Cleopatra’s spine.
Her breathing turned shallow. She had read about this. Heard stories. Branding was for animals. For criminals. For those without worth.
Not her.
She’s a queen!
"Don’t you dare touch me," she snarled.
The trader smirked. He reached for the iron. Lifted it. The tip glowed red-hot.
Cleopatra’s pulse roared in her ears and then panic surged. She thrashed wildly, kicking, biting—anything to break free but the iron only inched closer. Then pain followed, a white-hot, blinding pain.
The searing heat tore through her shoulder, burning deep into flesh and bone. She clenched her teeth so hard she tasted blood, refusing to scream. The scent of her own flesh burning filled her nostrils. Tears pricked her eyes, but she would not let them fall.
Not now.
Not ever.