Page 20 of Dalla's Royal Guards
The woman’s eyes flashed back to his before dropping to the goblet he held out.
“I—The drink—I—” she stuttered, paling and taking a step away.
He followed her. “Drink it,” he ordered again.
Panic filled her eyes, and she shook her head. “I cannot.”
He followed her frantic look at Rahotep, Khufu’s youngest brother, and Hakeem’s eyes narrowed when the prince frowned severely at the server. Gripping the goblet, he shot a glance at a nearby guard and motioned to the woman.
“Detain her,” he ordered, before turning to Khufu’s brother.
He threaded his way through the gathering until he was standing in front of Rahotep. The prince sneered at him, his gaze running over him as if he were a lowly insect instead of a royal guard.
“Your drink, Your Majesty,” he said, holding out the goblet.
Fury darkened Rahotep’s features. “You dare approach me.”
“What seems to be the problem, Hakeem?” Khufu asked.
“A new server wished to give you this drink. I think it is poisoned,” he replied.
“Then why try to give it to my brother?” Khufu demanded.
“Because he is the one who sent it to you,” he replied.
“Rahotep? Is this true?” Khufu demanded.
Rahotep’s face twisted with fury. “Yes,” he said, pulling a short blade out and thrusting it toward Khufu.
Hakeem dropped the goblet and reached for Rahotep’s arm, grunting when the blade slid along his forearm before he twisted Rahotep’s arm in a crushing grip.
Chaos erupted when Rahotep’s guards surged into the room. Hakeem twisted when one came at him. Rahotep fell backwards, scrambling to get away from the fight. Khufu picked up the knife his brother had dropped and turned on a guard coming at him.
The guards Hakeem had trained quickly overwhelmed Rahotep’s meager forces. Fire burned where the blade had slid along the inside of his arm. He pressed his other hand over the cut, swaying as nausea curled his stomach.
“Hakeem, are you injured?” Ammon asked, reaching for him.
He dropped to his knees as the spreading weakness slid over him. He looked up at his second-in-command, his eyes glazing with pain.
“Poison. The knife.”
His eyes moved to the knife Khufu was holding. His heart slowed, and he fell to the side, staring up at the ceiling. A small smile played on his lips. He was free at last.
Harlem lifted the glass and drained the contents. He hadn’t been free. Death had been but a brief respite. He opened the glass case containing the items he had taken from Khufu’s tomb. Theinterior smelled of old parchment, beeswax, and secrets best left buried. It was a rich, musky scent—timeless, reminding him of the tomb the contents came from.
Carefully, Harlem ran his fingers along the spine of a book older than most nations, its title long faded. He paused when he reached for the simple wooden box tucked among the items. Opening it, a dagger—curved, with a ruby embedded in the hilt—lay nestled against a bed of grass from the Nile. It was the blade that had killed him the first time.
“Hello, old friend,” he murmured, running his finger along the ivory handle.
In the background, Mozart rose to a crescendo, and Harlem inhaled deeply. This place was history.Hishistory. Every piece, every relic, a memory carved in blood and stone.
He stiffened, his head lifting, his eyes closing as he felt a familiar shiver run down his spine. Somewhere, out there, another piece of his past had awakened.
The sensation thrummed in his chest—a ripple in the unseen thread connecting him to those like him.
Harlem moved to his desk, fingers ghosting over the worn spine of a leather-bound journal. He opened it to a blank page, dipping the quill into the inkpot with the precision of centuries.
In perfect script, he began:
