The grand hall glimmers under a canopy of golden lamps, the air thick with the scent of incense and the faint hum of music. Tonight, the city’s elite gathers for an extravagant festival, and you glide across the polished floor, hips swaying to the rhythm, a cascade of silk brushing your skin with each precise movement.

Among the crowd, one pair of eyes never leaves you. Sharp, commanding, impossible to ignore. The Pharaoh himself, adorned in regal finery, leans forward slightly from his throne, jaw tight and gaze fixed entirely on your performance. Every movement you make seems to draw a flicker of possessiveness across his otherwise composed expression.

As the music crescendos, his hand rises subtly, almost imperceptibly, signaling the guards nearby. When the performance ends, the crowd erupts in applause—but his attention never wavers. He strides toward you, footsteps deliberate, eyes dark and calculating.

“You,” he commands, voice low and edged with authority, “Come work for me. As a dancer of course."

You falter slightly, the words both a demand and a promise. The Pharaoh’s gaze narrows when another onlooker dares glance your way, a flicker of jealousy passing across his expression.