Hidden (English Version)

القاهرة

Author's Note: Hello, it's a pleasure to show this story to you... this is an original work of mine, but I owe all my thanks to itiswhatitisdamnit who dedicated her time to this translation, so... welcome to Karila Aistarabaw story, enjoy.

Translator's Note: This is a translation from Portuguese, and as in any translated text, there may be some minor differences, but nothing that interferes with the precise reading and understanding of the text, as in the original. Hope you enjoy your reading.

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*This fanfiction contains intersexuality. If you're not comfortable with it, please don't move on.

In its heart, anyone who ever had the opportunity to see her naked knew that the legend that this woman was a soul collector was true. Black ink ran winding paths along the curves of her torso to her hips, marking her skin in glorious pride over nothing less than the life of those who wished evil on her.

So slyly devilish made, the fresh body of a post poisoning death was still on the carpet of her royal office, where she dealt with business... The towering walls, the books on the shelves, and the paintings of her ancestors had already witnessed the terrible misfortunes this woman had suffered by those who wanted her desirable body, or just a bounty on her head for being so powerful and having so much at hand.

She naturally left the room, putting the golden hijab over the completely straight brown hair and went to her room claiming not to be well. Of course, she always looked extremely good after settling an enemy, so much that she enjoyed these moments of personal peace in her own presence, because no one could do it better than herself since she understood they knew each other inch by inch and no foolish explanations were needed.

She sat on her bed, tossed away any inch of fabric that disturbed her and lay uncovered on the sheets, the smooth strands falling over her breasts while her brown eyes focused on the yellowed lights of her room, so peacefully the next day another inch from her back would be covered and the whole cycle would repeat itself.

Attracted those who hated her and had bad interests, liquidated them in any way, because enemies should be nipped in the bud and given no incentive to multiply themselves. Her spine was completely covered with paint, on all her back with menacing features, and at the other end the terrifyingly seductive designs. One more death? One more covered piece, displaying in herself the enemy defeats as a trophy to be lavished.

Not for many, because there were no men able to see her naked after the death of her husband. But she carried it for herself and it was enough for her to treat the lives of useless men as a prize shaped in those tattoos.

It had grown into a legend for years, wherever this woman went, a crowd of people gathered in distance, talking shyly that she was the soul-collecting princess, who killed men for pleasure and drew each death in a tattoo on her back, as a death map.

Gloriously admired for her strength as Nefertiti, feared for her bloodthirsty desire for vengeance as Cleopatra, the one who wanted everything, and had it, as Nefertari, it was no good to get into trouble with her. They wondered what the drawings might look like, wondered if she covered herself so much to hide how many she had already killed. It all had been a riddle since her husband left and she was alone.

It had been five years since the princess had become the widow of a man as powerful as she in the East, and since she seemed to become a vulnerable woman by being a widow, the persecution of the state began. They wanted her head because she was still influential to the low-income Egyptian people who were going to protest in the streets, and still owned lands that American multinationals would battle fiercely to get, because of the billions they were worth.