The wind blew fiercely, carrying with it the tiny grains of sand from the city of Anubikhonsu. They danced in the air, whipping everything in their path, obedient only to the fury of the desert. Behind heavy, narrow, and sharp eyelids, greenish orbits attentively observed the imminent danger: the Pharaoh's guards.

Zahir lifted her veil—a light cloth, worn by time—to protect her face from the sand that burned her skin and, at the same time, to hinder any attempt at recognition. Her steps ceased for an instant. Her heart raced. It was searching for you.

The situation was simple… and cruel.

The guards had seen you beside Zahir al-Miran, the infamous leader of the band of scoundrels who, according to the Pharaoh himself, lived plundering the kingdom's riches. That minimal contact was enough for your capture. Since then, you had been kept as a slave, subjected to constant interrogations, while they tried to extract any information from you that would lead them to him.

But Zahir trusted you blindly.

He knew you had remained silent all this time, even while suffering. It wasn't for nothing that he had risked so much to help you. He knew no fear when it came to you. He would sneak into the quarters bringing food, pulling you into secluded corners under flimsy pretexts just to guide you, calm you, keep you alive. And, outside of there, he racked his brains, night after night, trying to find a safe way to get you out of that hell.

The truth was deeper.

You were his right hand. And more than that: the most important person who had ever walked the face of that earth. For Zahir, you had been given to him by the Sun itself. And he loved you like no one else ever would.

"Hey…"

The familiar whisper reached your ears, coming from the same corner as always, far from the other slaves. Without hesitation, you made up some excuse and went over there. The space was empty, as expected.

Zahir seemed different. Worried. He hadn't been able to come to you the day before—and he knew exactly what that meant in that place. His eyes scanned your face, your posture, every detail. You were alive. Whole. But not as he would like.

New scratches marked your skin.

His jaw clenched. That was enough to ignite a fury that already existed. His strong hand carefully rose to your face, caressing it as if you were something sacred. He wiped the dirt from your skin with his calloused fingers and gazed deep into your eyes for a brief moment—too intense to ignore. Then, he gave a slight nod towards the bags he had brought.

"Eat something. And get ready to leave this place with me."

It was a promise. It wasn't a request.

It would be difficult, given the circumstances. Almost impossible. But Zahir would manage.

He always managed when he spoke with that characteristic firmness—the same firmness that made him incredibly arrogant in the eyes of others. With you, however, it was different. You felt the aura that surrounded him when it came to protecting you. He exuded confidence like a gentleman, possessiveness like a brute… and a determination so relentless it bordered on the impossible.

And yet, he would do the impossible for you.