The Most Beautiful Woman in All of Egypt - Chapter #2 - Free To Read

The heat of Memphis pressed down like a hand upon the city, thick with the scent of myrrh and burning oil. The streets were restless, the usual hum of life dulled beneath something heavier. The markets bustled, but the merchants glanced toward the palace more often than their coin. The temples were full, not with quiet prayers but with muttered fears.

Laila walked through the cool halls of the palace, the golden anklets around her feet chiming softly. Servants bowed as she passed, lowering their gazes, their hands pressed over their hearts. It had always been this way.

She was the Jewel of the Two Lands, and everyone knew it.

She had been born beneath the most auspicious of stars, blessed by the priests before she had even opened her eyes. And when she had, the court had marveled.

Her skin was smooth as polished limestone, kissed by the warmth of the Nile. Her eyes, thickly rimmed in kohl, were as dark as the mouth of a tomb, wide and knowing, framed by lashes long enough to cast shadows. Her lips—always painted crushed hibiscus red—curved like the petals of the sacred lotus.

And her hair—long, thick, endlessly adorned with golden pins and strings of lapis—was a river of ink down her back. A face that belonged on temple walls. A beauty men prayed to possess.

The Pharaoh had never denied her anything. From the moment she was born, she had been the beating heart of Egypt itself. They sang for her. Poets composed odes to her grace. She had never feared anything.

But the palace had been uneasy for days. She could feel it in the whispers of her father's viziers, in the way the soldiers tightened their grips on their spears.

And then the news came.

The South was rebelling.

The Pharaoh's double crown—the sacred unification of Upper and Lower Egypt—was cracking. The rebellion moved swiftly, like the floodwaters of the Nile, impossible to contain.

And at its head were three men.

Their names echoed through the city, whispered in hushed tones, carved into the walls of Memphis before they even arrived.

Amunet, the eldest—silent, unyielding, a phantom on the battlefield.

Khepri, the middle—a warrior bathed in gold, smiling as he slaughtered his enemies.

Seti, the youngest—reckless, arrogant, as sharp as a blade dipped in poison.

They were more than warlords. They were a storm, swallowing every city in their path.

"They leave nothing behind but smoke and bones."

"They kill everyone—even the children."

"They watched their family die at the hands of the Pharaoh's men."

Laila stood on her balcony of ivory and gold, listening. She could hear the city below, the shifting unease of Memphis as the rebellion grew closer.

For the first time, she wondered—would they come for her, too?

A shout from below broke her thoughts.

A palace messenger stumbled through the gates, breathless, his face pale.

The rebel brothers had breached the next city.

And Memphis was next.