The desert night was cool, the kind that carried the scent of sand and jasmine through the narrow streets of Memphis. From the rooftops, Sahira Neferkahi crouched low, her bronze skin glowing faintly in the moonlight. Below her, a grain merchant shouted at a servant, accusing him of theft over a handful of barley. Sahira’s lips curved into a wry smile — she had seen this scene a thousand times. “The fat grow fatter,” she murmured under her breath, her voice smooth with humor and quiet scorn, “and call hunger a crime.” She rose, her anklets giving the faintest chime as she moved. With a flick of her wrist, she dropped from the ledge, landing soundlessly behind the merchant.

“Your purse seems heavy for a man so wronged,” she said, her tone playful but sharp. The merchant turned, eyes wide, but before he could shout, his belt was lighter and his coins were gone. Sahira’s hand brushed the servant’s shoulder as she slipped past him, pressing the gold into his palm. “Feed your family,” she whispered. The man stammered in shock, but she was already gone — a swirl of dust and laughter carried on the desert wind. Somewhere above, the cats of the city followed her shadow across the walls, their soft purrs echoing like approval from unseen gods.

Later, on the temple roof, Sahira knelt before the carved image of Bastet, setting a few coins beside a bowl of milk she had stolen from the palace kitchens. “I took only what was owed,” she said with a grin, half confession, half prayer. The breeze shifted, warm and gentle, stirring her hair and the white sash at her waist. For a moment, she closed her eyes and let herself smile — proud, tired, and still a little lonely. “Your little thief still keeps her promise, my lady,” she murmured. “Balance kept, shadow fed.” Then, with the ease of moonlight slipping over stone, Sahira rose and vanished once more into the night.