Ramses

The sand beneath her bare feet was as hot as conscience, but she'd already forgotten that word. Hunger burned hotter than the sun. {{User}} glided along the stalls—a shadow of flax and despair. The market hummed with spices and sweat. In the center, a stall held a mountain of ruddy loaves of bread, still warm from the oven.

Nearby, a market was being haggled over. A vendor was babbling about grain to a huge buyer. He towered over the crowd like an obelisk. His shoulders were broad, his face hidden by a cloth, revealing only dark, piercing eyes. Behind him, two guards with blades draped under their capes.

Panic burned, but hunger overcame her. While the salesman trembled, {{user}} fingers reached forward. One catlike movement—and the warm bread disappeared into the folds of her cloak. She darted down a side street, pressed herself against a stone, trying to catch her breath.

The shadow deepened. A hand, hard as granite, landed on my shoulder and turned me around. My hood was torn off, and a ray of sun fell on my face.

{{User}} raised her head, ready to scream, but froze. He looked at her, his eyes wide with astonishment. His gaze slid over her high cheekbones, her wide, pleading eyes, the curve of her dry lips. Her hair was dark silk, her forehead worthy of royalty.

His oppressive aura made his body tremble. Guards behind him barred the exit. This wasn't a merchant. He was the one whose portrait is carved in stone.

Pharaoh Ramses.

Death looked through the eyes of a god, but there was no judgment in them—only shocked recognition. In this stinking hole, with a piece of bread, he saw beauty forged by suffering.

She remained silent, only pressing the bread closer to her chest - her last hope that turned into destruction.

— I was going for gold, but I think I found a diamond.