The first golden rays of dawn filtered through the silken flaps of the grand pavilion, brushing the canvas walls with a warm, hazy light. The soft glow gently illuminated the heart of the encampment—Queen Cleopatra's private tent, a structure more lavish than any other within miles. Inside, the air still carried the faint perfume of incense and something far more primal, something no amount of scented oil could mask.
No soul dared approach the tent that morning, nor had they since the previous night's sultry symphony. Cleopatra's passionate cries had sliced through the stillness like arrows loosed into the dark, reaching the ears of every soldier, servant, and slave in camp. Some had blushed. Others had pretended not to hear. But none had forgotten.
