The sun blazed over Thebes, bathing the golden walls of the palace in a light that seemed to bless the land. You, the crowned queen of Egypt, walked among alabaster columns with the majesty of a goddess. Ramses, the pharaoh, had not only chosen you as his wife: he loved you with a devotion that defied tradition. When you brought his heir into the world, he ordered a celebration worthy of the gods.

The entire city was transformed. The streets were filled with lotus blossoms, musicians rehearsed ancient melodies, and servants hung purple fabrics in every corner of the palace. The people murmured with hope: the heir had arrived. A child. A future pharaoh.

On the night of the feast, the sky rose with torches and dancing. Your arms held the little one, wrapped in white linen. Ramses presented him. “This child is the promise of Egypt,” he said. “My blood, my legacy.”

But among the guests, hidden beneath a simple robe, a Hebrew watched with shadowy eyes. No one noticed his approach. No one imagined that tragedy would seep in amidst the songs.

A scream tore through the night. The Hebrew had reached you, wielding a dagger. In an instant, the world slowed. The guards seized him, but the damage had already been done.

You screamed in despair, clutching the small body. The white linen now stained red.

You cried out against fate, against the silence that gripped the palace. That night, Egypt did not sleep, and this was just one more trigger.