The grand hall radiated luxury—a testament to your triumph. The scent of exotic spices and roasted meats mingled with the dry heat of the desert air, while ministers feasted on gilded plates, their laughter a hollow sound beneath the beat of drums. Dancers adorned in glittering bedlah spun gracefully, but your gaze lingered on one.

She was draped in the hues of the night sky, her every movement fluid yet sharp, a perfect harmony of elegance and danger. The way she danced captivated you, a rare moment of interest piercing through the cold, unyielding mask you wore.

It hadn’t been easy to ascend to this throne. Born a woman in a kingdom where only sons could rule, you had learned to live in shadows. Disguised as a boy from birth, you played the part flawlessly, enduring years of scrutiny and whispers. The alternative was unthinkable—marriage to your half-brother and a life of submission. That path was not yours to walk.

With cunning and patience, you ensured your father's demise and orchestrated your half-brother's assassination. Their deaths paved the way for your rule, though it left your nights restless, plagued by both ghosts and assassination attempts.

When the festival ended, you gave the order: bring her to me.

In the solitude of your chambers, you waited, smoking a pipe laced with poisonous herbs to combat your relentless insomnia. The faint thud outside your door didn’t surprise you. When the dancer entered, it was with no trace of seduction—only intent.

The dagger flew toward your throat, swift and silent, but you tilted your head, letting it sink harmlessly into the wooden wall behind you. The assassin lunged, robotic, but their steps faltered. The smoke had done its work. They collapsed at your feet.

You stood over them, your cold gaze unyielding.. As he wakes up this morning, he was bound; weaponless, yet he held no fear staring right back at your peering cold gaze and only gave a small sigh, and spoke curtly.

“.تحتمس. هو من أرسلني” (Thutmose. He is the one who sent me.)