Do the right thing.
Through the ripples of her tear-filled eyes, Zahra saw the discreet door connecting her chambers to his. A precaution. A quiet promise that if something went wrong in the night, help was only a few steps away.
Would he be there?
Her chest ached — not only with the fresh grief of her father's death, but with the memory of the words she had hurled at the Pharaoh, sharp and cruel and meant to wound. At the time, she had believed them with every fibre of her being.
That had been before she found the letter.
Even now, from beyond the grave, her father tempered her fire, steadied her hands. He had always known how to do that.
But he was gone.
She threw her doubt away, his words fresh in her mind.
Do the right thing.
And that was what she had always tried to do. What she had always believed she was doing.
Perhaps she didn't do it cleanly, nicely, or even peacefully. But she always believed she was doing the right thing.
With the right intentions.
But what she said to him… That was cruel and unnecessary. Words spoken out of anger and grief.
The sound of her bare feet striking the stone floor echoed too loudly in her ears as she moved. Each step felt heavier than the last. Still, one thought anchored her through the rising panic in her chest.
Would he understand?
She needed him to know.
Her breath shuddered as she reached the door. She paused, pressing her forehead briefly against the cool stone, forcing air into her lungs until the tightness eased enough to move again. Then, with all the strength she could gather, she leaned forward.
The door gave way.
The Pharaoh stood watching the sky. She knew from the way he clasped his hands over his arms that the frown he wore was from concentration, rather than anger.
He was deep in thought.
Her eyes fell to his feet and dragged up the strong lines of his calves before they disappeared into his royal robes, up and up, until they reached a bicep that bulged from his pose. He had been keeping up with the exercises she realised, as a stray tear tumbled.
She had never allowed herself to notice before.
Then, as the moonlight slipped through the window, illuminating his face in an achingly ethereal way, she realised something.
He looked… tired. Worn in a way her soul understood.
The moment she crossed the threshold, his body went still.
Then he turned.
That gaze — sharp, watchful, endlessly perceptive — caught her like a snare. Instinctively, she dropped her eyes. He must still be angry. The thought twisted painfully in her chest.
Remembering her father's words, she took a few careful steps forward.
He stilled further, like a predator sensing something fragile drawing too close.
Her feet decided she was close enough. Her arms fell limply at her sides, her father's letter brushing against her fingers, grounding her.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly, breath coming fast, the words tumbling out before she could lose her nerve.
She needed to say it, and know that he heard it. Now she was ready for the resentment he would undoubtedly unleash.
The silence was deafening.
She cursed herself for not even having the guts to look him in the eyes.
It was all she could. To do the right thing. All she could to say those words and watch as a tear dripped from her lash and splashed on the stone floor beneath.
Then came the sound of movement.
Her head snapped up.
She wasn't sure who closed the remaining distance between them. It didn't matter. One heartbeat, she was standing alone, the next, she was pressed into his chest, his arms wrapped around her with startling force — as if loosening his grip might cause her to slip away entirely.
Her arms rose on instinct, circling his neck, tentative at first… then tighter.
He held her as though they had been separated for months. The warmth of the Millennium Puzzle seeped through her, steady and real.
"I didn't mean the things I said," she whispered.
"I'm so glad to hear you say that," he murmured, his voice low. "Truly."
Her fingers tightened in his robes.
"I don't know what I'm going to do without him."
"You don't have to know," he said gently. "You're not alone in this."
"I thought—" Her breath hitched. "I thought I'd seen darkness before... when my mother died. But this—" Her voice broke. "This is different. This is cold and empty. My life before, everything I've always known… It's gone. I feel so numb."
Silent tears slid down her cheeks.
"I've always been strong," she went on, barely audible now. "Strong enough to lift men twice my size. But this…" Her grip trembled. "I don't think I'm strong enough to carry this."
Her whole body was pressed up against his — close enough that they might have blended into one — and she could feel his steady breathing beneath her own.
"I believed I would see my mother again," she whispered. "But my father… he's gone somewhere I'm not sure I can find."
"I know," he said softly. "And I'm sorry it happened this way."
His hand pressed firmly between her shoulder blades, anchoring her.
"Know this, Zahra," he continued. "I am here. Whenever you need me. I see you — all of you. The pain, the anger, the fear. And I will do everything in my power to help you through it."
She buried her face into the curve of his neck, clinging to him as though he were the only solid thing left in the world. He tightened his hold in response, just enough to tell her he understood.
Her fists twisted in his clothes. If she spoke again, she would shatter completely.
And she still needed to be strong.
Not just for herself.
Not just for him.
But for her father.
And for the first time in forever, she felt calm.
Until the moment lingered longer than it should have.
Then the world around them began to thin.
The warmth in his arms faded first — not abruptly, but like heat bleeding from sand at dusk. The stone beneath her feet lost its weight, its texture, until it was no more than an idea. Zahra tried to hold on, tightening her grip, but her fingers passed through fabric that was no longer there.
The Pharaoh's voice echoed once — distant, distorted — before dissolving into silence.
Darkness pressed in from every side.
Her eyes flew open — or tried to — and found only darkness.
Her body arched violently, muscles locking all at once as if seized by an unseen hand. Breath tore from her lungs in ragged, helpless gasps. She shook — not in waves, but in sharp, relentless spasms that ripped through her limbs and spine, each one stealing what little control she had left.
Somewhere nearby, a machine shrieked, its rhythm erratic, panicked — mirroring the chaos inside her chest.
Whatever had her wasn't loosening its grip. It was tightening.
And with it came the sound of wind.
Endless.
Howling.
Sand scraped across her skin. Her mouth filled with grit. The storm swallowed everything — memory, breath, thought — until there was nothing left but motion and noise and pain.
When she tried to open her eyes, there was only darkness —
and the scream of a storm tearing the world apart.