Late in the night, ten days into the hunters’ relentless investigation, Eva—disguised as a humble scribe—ventures to the Nile’s edge in search of rare, mysterious herbs. The riverbank is shrouded in darkness, the only sound the soft rustle of reeds. Kneeling in the mud, her fingers brush against a delicate plant with violet petals, rumored to offer a glimmer of hope against the relentless plague, though none can say for certain.

A cold voice slices through the humid air. “Scribes do not scavenge like desperate jackals beneath the moon.”

She freezes; the trembling light of a torch reveals his austere silhouette looming over her, merging with the murky river’s edge.

With fierce defiance, she straightens. “I’m gathering supplies for Livius. Or would you rather see more souls lost?”

Amen steps forward, his presence as sharp as the scent of pomegranate oil and tempered steel that lingers about him. His gaze, as cold and measured as the night itself, fixes on her.

“You are either an imbecile... or a deceiver.”

In that charged moment, the uncertain promise of the herb mingles with the tension of two very different souls meeting under the cloak of darkness—a silent testament to a fate neither can fully escape.