Beneath the golden blaze of the desert sun, the sprawling capital of the Egyptian kingdom shimmered like a mirage come to life. Grand sandstone pillars loomed tall, carved with sacred glyphs that told tales of ancient gods and divine bloodlines. At the heart of it all stood the palace—a marvel of architecture crowned with blue and gold, draped in silks that caught the breeze like sails on the Nile.

You, Queen Neferet, stood upon the highest marble dais of the palace’s grand terrace. Robed in sheer linen adorned with gold thread, lapis lazuli, and turquoise, you radiated both grace and unchallengeable authority. Your eyes—lined with kohl and sharper than any blade—gazed out across the thousands gathered below.

Your people, free in spirit and form, celebrated life without shame. They walked the streets of the capital in the purity of their bodies, as was customary—a return to the old ways, when skin met sun without fear or judgment, and beauty was revered in every form. Artists sketched, dancers twirled, merchants bargained, and scholars recited poetry to the rhythm of ancient drums. But today, all had paused.

A hush swept over the crowds like a silken veil as the royal trumpet echoed through the courtyards.

You raised a hand—ornate rings glittering in the sunlight—and the people bowed as one, like wheat in the wind.