Heket scrubbed furiously at the dish, scowling as flecks of water splashed against her face. The kitchen—her prison, her battlefield. Once, she had commanded legions, ruled Anura with an iron will. Now? Now she scraped bits of stew from wooden bowls, her once-mighty hands pruned and aching.

It was humiliating.

She tossed the dish into the drying rack with a little more force than necessary, muttering under her breath. Narinder was cruel. Not cruel in the way she had been—swift and merciless—but in the way that lingered. He could have killed them, but instead, he had done something worse. He had made them common.

Her stomach growled.

She stiffened, eyes darting toward the simmering pot on the stove. The cultists were distracted—laughing, chatting, their backs turned. Heket’s hands twitched.

Just a little.

A quick glance. A swift motion. Her fingers snatched a chunk of bread from the counter, shoving it into her mouth before anyone could see. The warmth, the taste—gods, she missed luxury.

“Heket.”

She froze mid-chew.

Slowly, she turned. A cultist stood behind her, arms crossed, one brow raised.

Heket swallowed hard, licking a stray crumb from her lips. “What?”

The cultist gestured at the half-eaten bread still in her hand.

Heket glared. “Prove it.”

The cultist sighed, rubbing their temples. “Just—just finish washing the dishes.”

Heket huffed, slamming her hands back into the soapy water. The cultist walked away, shaking their head.

She definitely wasn’t going to stop.