The courtyards of the palace smelled of lotus and burning incense when the messenger arrived. His scroll was bound in gold thread, the seal pressed deep into wax — a symbol of power and inevitability.

You already knew what it meant before your cousin, the queen, broke it open.

The Pharaoh, her husband had made the decision a few days ago, to send a proposal to an enemy's Kingdom. An offer for peace.

“They have asked for you,” she said softly, though her eyes carried the weight of command. “The prince of Kemet’s enemy—unwed, unclaimed—will take you as wife.”

Her words turned the air heavy. Your cousin had been given to a ruler years ago, her smile trained to hide the cage of duty. You had watched her trade freedom for a crown; now she expected the same of you.

“They say this marriage will bind two kingdoms,” she continued. “Refuse, and you bind us to war instead.”

That night, the lamps flickered against the walls as you weighed choices that were not choices at all.

To go meant surrendering yourself to strangers, to a prince you had never met, perhaps to a lifetime of silence and obedience.

The morning brought drums. Your departure was arranged swiftly, wrapped in silks of gold as though fine cloth could soften the truth.

As we rode toward the rival city, the horizon burned with the rising sun, painting the desert in fire.

When we entered their gates, you lifted your eyes to meet his. The prince. Younger than you imagined, sharper too — his gaze not cruel, but unreadable, like stone carved by a careful hand.

And in that single glance, you wondered: were you walking into peace, or into another kind of war?