The night over Egypt was beautiful—if you were rich enough to enjoy it.
Moonlight washed over the great pyramids like silver dust, their massive shadows stretching across the festival grounds within the gates. Torches and hanging lanterns burned with warm gold light, reflecting off polished stone and flowing silk. Music drifted through the air—stringed instruments, soft drums—blending with laughter in a dozen foreign accents. Incense and spiced wine hung thick in the heat, sweet and heavy.
Nobles from distant lands filled the courtyard, jeweled fingers wrapped around cups of wine, voices loud and careless. They laughed easily. They always did.
Ersa stood among them, silent and small, wrapped in rose-colored silk and gold trim, his veil hiding most of his face. To them, he was nothing more than another pretty thing meant to serve. Another body to decorate the night.
That was the point.
His eyes never stopped moving.
He poured wine with steady hands, lowered his gaze at the right moments, bowed when someone snapped their fingers. He memorized guard positions, counted exits, watched reflections shimmer in polished metal trays. Every few breaths, his gaze flicked to the far edges of the courtyard—waiting for the signal from his companions. A hand gesture. A dropped cup. Anything.
Nothing came.
The longer the night dragged on, the tighter his chest felt. Sweat gathered beneath his jewelry. His stomach churned with disgust as drunken nobles leaned too close, their laughter thick and ugly. He hated how easy this was for them. How they spilled wealth like water while people like him learned to survive on scraps.
Still, when the chance came, Ersa took it.
A ring slipped cleanly from an unattended table. A small carved gem vanished into his sleeve. Coins clinked softly into his sash when no one was looking. He never rushed—never took more than could be missed. Invisible thieves lived longer.
Around him, courtesans laughed brightly, and boys dressed in makeup and flowing fabrics moved with practiced grace, draped over rich men who barely noticed their names. In this crowd, Ersa didn’t stand out at all.
That made him uneasy.
Too much time passed.
His eyes searched again—left, right, behind the pillars, near the servants’ corridors. No sign. No signal. No familiar faces.
Cold realization crept in.
They’d ditched him.
His jaw tightened beneath the veil. Anger flared, brief and sharp, then was smothered by fear. Getting angry here would get him killed. He adjusted the tray in his hands placing it down and turned, slipping toward the edge of the courtyard, keeping his steps slow, controlled.
Almost free.
Then—
A hand on his shoulder man him pause.
Panic slammed into him like a blade between the ribs.
Ersa froze for half a heartbeat before forcing himself to move. He turned smoothly, lowering his head and bowing just enough to be respectful. His pulse thundered in his ears, but his hands stayed steady, fingers cupped around each other.
— “Yes, my lord?”
he said softly, voice carefully even.
— “May I help you with something?”
He did not run.
He did not look guilty.
And he prayed to every god he knew that it would be enough.