The Most Beautiful Woman in All of Egypt - Chapter #8 - Free To Read

Laila sat still as Hagar fastened the last golden bracelet around her wrist, the cool metal pressing against her pulse. Her hands moved deftly, adjusting the folds of linen over Laila's shoulders, smoothing them until they cascaded down her back like flowing water.

The tent was dim, the flickering light from oil lamps casting long shadows against the walls.

Laila inhaled, slow and measured. "This is madness."

Hagar snorted softly, stepping back to examine her work. "It's strategy."

"What if they see through me?" Laila asked.

Hagar tilted her head, lifting the golden headdress shaped into the sun disk of Ra. "Then you let them see what you want them to."

She settled the headdress atop Laila's head, adjusting the delicate gold chains so they framed her face, catching the dim light like molten fire.

Laila swallowed. She had been worshipped before. But never like this.

Not as something untouchable. Not as something dangerous.

Hagar crouched beside her, pressing a warm palm to Laila's bare shoulder. Her grip was firm. "They need a goddess tonight." She lifted her chin slightly. "So give them one."

Laila exhaled slowly. Then, she rose.

The desert wind had died, leaving only the distant crackle of burning wood and the shuffle of boots against sand.

The rebel camp had gathered—men hardened by war, lean from hunger but never weak. They stood between the tents, near the dying fires, weapons still strapped to their backs, but their hands had fallen from the hilts.

And then—the music began.

The dancers came first, moving through the firelight, their bodies bare beneath thin veils of linen, painted in gold and scented with lotus oil. Their arms lifted in slow arcs, wrists twisting like the flow of the Nile, bangles chiming in soft, teasing notes.

Then came the musicians, the steady pound of the drums rolling through the sand.

And finally—the silence.

Laila stepped forward.

The linen dress clung to her, embroidered with gold thread, its cut designed to drape but never hide. The broad collar of turquoise and amethyst rested cool against her collarbone, the heavy stones shifting with every step. The bracelets shaped like the wings of Isis gleamed against her wrists, flashing in the light.

The golden headdress, the sun disk of Ra, rested atop her head, delicate chains swaying, catching the firelight like strands of the sun itself.

She did not lower her gaze.

She did not hurry.

She walked as though they had been waiting for her all along.

A shift passed through the gathered warriors.

Some swallowed hard, their throats moving visibly, though they made no sound. Others exhaled slowly, as if only now realizing they had been holding their breath.

One soldier—a man with scars carved deep into his chest—dragged a hand down his face, his fingers lingering at his lips, as if trying to chase away the thoughts forming there.

Another's fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger, his knuckles pale, his grip unsure.

A younger warrior—barely more than a boy—stood near the edge of the gathering, eyes wide, his lips parted slightly. He blinked, as if trying to remind himself to breathe.

Even Seti, who had mocked her the entire journey, sat still on the edge of a wooden crate, a half-empty goblet of wine dangling from his fingers. He did not lift it to his lips.

Khepri, standing near the war tent, said nothing. His golden eyes tracked her, slow and calculating. His head tilted, only slightly, as though weighing a thought he had never considered before.

And then—Amunet drew his sword.