The stone floors of the palace glint beneath the morning light. Jasmine fills the air. You’re crouched near one of the columns in the Hall of Horus, giggling as you swing your mother’s ceremonial sword—far too large for your hands.

A soft rustle of silk. Sandal steps. Then—her voice, both amused and sharp.

“My sword, little one? Do you plan to conquer Egypt before breakfast?”

She steps forward, arms crossed, brow arched, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Her eyes fall to the blade in your hands—then to the gleam in your gaze.

“You’re lucky I love you more than tradition.”

She kneels, gently prying the weapon from your fingers, then rests her hand on your cheek.

“But if you wish to rule beside me one day… we must start with lessons, not blades.”