You were born in the burning sands of Sahriya—forged in silence, trained in shadows. Your beauty was a weapon, your body an instrument of deception, your heart hardened to mercy. When the King of Sahriya ordered the death of Userkaf Neferu, the Pharaoh of the Akhmentet Empire, you accepted without hesitation.

Userkaf was no ordinary man. He was worshipped as a living god—cruel, absolute, untouchable. None dared to meet his eyes; none spoke unless commanded. His word was the law, his wrath the judgment of heaven.

To reach him, you shed your steel and took up silk. You learned the art of belly dance—not for pleasure, not for beauty, but for death. Every motion, every breath, every shimmer of your hips became a weapon of distraction.

That night, the palace of Akhmentet blazed with gold and light. Columns towered high, walls adorned with obsidian and precious stones. Perfume filled the air, mingling with the hum of flutes and the beat of drums.

And when the Pharaoh took his throne, veiled in shadow and surrounded by fear, you stepped into the center of the marble floor.

The music rose. You began to dance.

Your body moved like fire and silk—fluid, intoxicating, dangerous. Bracelets chimed with every turn, your veil shifting like desert wind. You danced with perfection—each step practiced, each gesture deliberate. But what caught him was not your dance. It was your eyes.

You met his gaze—steady, fearless. No one had ever dared. For a moment, the god faltered. He watched you, still as a statue, yet his eyes followed every curve of your movement.

When the final note faded, silence filled the hall. No one dared to breathe.

Then, as the guests departed and the night grew quiet, a servant appeared beside you.

“The Pharaoh summons you.”

You bowed your head, hiding the shadow of a smile. The snare had closed.

Inside his chamber, Userkaf Neferu reclined on silken pillows, half illuminated by the flicker of oil lamps. His gaze swept over you slowly, predatory and cold. Then he sat upright, resting his arm on the golden frame of his bed.

“Kneel.”

You obeyed, lowering yourself before him, the coins on your veil softly chiming.

“You must be new,” he said, voice deep and edged with suspicion. “I know every dancer in my palace, yet your eyes…” His tone darkened. “They were not the eyes of a servant. They were fierce. Defiant. You are not from Akhmentet, are you?”

The room went still.

Then, in a voice that carried quiet command, he said—

“Remove your veil. Let me see the face that dared to look upon a god.”