Love never ends

Chapter Nine

The palace awoke before the sun did, its sandstone walls slowly warming beneath the first touch of morning light, but already the corridors were trembling with rumor. A single whisper, carried by a page who had passed through the gardens at the wrong—or perhaps the right—time, had blossomed into something far more dangerous by dawn. Servants drifted from chamber to chamber like schools of fish, speaking behind raised hands, glancing over shoulders to ensure no adviser lurked within earshot. The palace had always breathed secrets, but this was different. This whisper held the potential to shift loyalties, to upend alliances, to alter the future of the throne itself. And all of it stemmed from one quiet moment beneath the moon—the sight of Princess Cleo and Ammon standing too close, speaking too softly, and sharing a stillness that could only be born of affection. The air itself seemed charged, as though Egypt’s gods had leaned in to listen. In the servants’ quarters, two young maids scrubbed bronze bowls, their voices barely above the trickle of water. “Did you see the princess with Ammon last night?” one murmured, her eyes wide with a thrill that was equal parts awe and fear. “The page swears he saw them alone in the gardens, and you know what that means. The council will have a fit. They already think she wanders too freely.” The second woman’s lips tightened as she shook her head, sending droplets scattering across the stone. “This is dangerous,” she whispered back, lowering her gaze as though someone might read treason in her expression. “The advisers have long memories, and even shorter tempers. They will not forgive such indiscretion. Punishment could be severe—for him, and perhaps even for her.” A shiver passed between them, quickly swallowed by the hush of morning work, yet the rumor spread from their tongues to others’ ears, like oil poured upon water. Kamen heard the whispers before he even reached the training yard, catching fragments of conversation drifting from alcoves and passageways. A handmaid’s gasp. A guard’s muttered observation. A scribe’s hushed theory. Each word hit him like a blow. Cleo… gardens… Ammon… moonlight. Rage surged through him in a hot, blinding wave that tightened his jaw and curled his fingers into fists at his sides. It was irrational, he told himself. Unreasonable. Unbefitting of a warrior who prided himself on control. But none of that mattered. The image he conjured—Cleo beneath the silver glow of the moon, her eyes soft, her smile unguarded, her trust placed in Ammon—was enough to send sparks of fury into his blood. And yet within that boiling frustration lurked a quieter, more treacherous ache. Longing. Fear. The knowledge that no matter how fiercely he trained, no matter how loyally he stood at her side, he could not shield her from the consequences of her own heart. He wanted to confront Ammon. Oh, how he wanted to drag the gentle scholar by the collar of his linen tunic and snarl in his face, to tell him that princesses did not belong in gardens at night with boys who read scrolls and whispered promises in the dark. He wanted to ask why Ammon was always there—always hovering, always smiling, always slipping through palace corridors with a quiet confidence that made Cleo’s laughter bloom like lotus petals at sunrise. Kamen’s muscles burned with the need to act, to fight, to reclaim some sense of power over the chaos that had erupted. But he still forced himself. The time was not yet right. One reckless move could expose too much—his jealousy, his love, his desperation. Such vulnerabilities would be weaponized by the council just as quickly as Cleo’s innocence had been. Cleo herself remained blissfully unaware of the storm gathering around her. As she walked through the hallways, the hem of her linen dress brushing against the cool stone, she felt only the soft afterglow of the previous night. The memory of Ammon’s quiet voice lingered like incense on her skin, warm and hopeful. She replayed their conversation with each step—the way he had smiled at her uncertainty, the way he had stepped closer when she confessed her fears of duty and expectation, the way their hands had brushed and held for a heartbeat longer than they should have. Her chest fluttered with a feeling she could not yet name, only sense in the rising warmth beneath her ribs. She did not think of the consequences. She did not think of advisers lurking in corners or nobles eager to twist her actions into political fodder. She thought only of the moonlit gardens, the smell of night-blooming jasmine, and the unwavering steadiness of Ammon’s gaze. Yet even in her unawareness, something prickled at the edges of her mind—a strange heaviness in the air, a shift in the way people moved around her. Servants bowed a little too quickly. Guards avoided her eyes. Pages who usually smiled at her shrank back with stiff politeness. Cleo noticed, though she did not understand. A part of her wondered if she had done something wrong, but the thought passed quickly as she remembered the warmth of Ammon’s hand against hers. She pushed the worries aside. Surely nothing so small could cause a problem. Surely no one had seen. But the palace saw everything. It always had. And somewhere, in a dark corridor where the sun had not yet reached, an adviser whispered to another, “The princess has crossed a line. It is time to act.” While Cleo drifted through her morning, unaware of the tightening snare around her, and while Ammon studied maps with an expression of quiet determination tinged with worry he dared not voice, Kamen stood on the far side of the training yard, chest heaving, sword clenched, so tightly the leather grip dug into his palm. The palace was murmuring, plotting, shifting like sand in a storm—and he could feel it all pressing against him. He had always protected her in ways she would never understand, but this… this was beyond the reach of any blade. And for the first time, he feared he might not be able to save her. Not from the council. Not from rumors. Not from herself. Not from the boy she trusted more than him. And that, above everything else, was what broke him most.