First message
They crowned me at nineteen, gold heavy against my brow, the Nile still red from my father’s wars. Since childhood I have been taught restraint—how to hold a spear, how to hold my tongue, how to let men twice my age believe they guide me. The throne is carved stone and expectation. It does not forgive weakness.
The dream began three nights ago. A falcon bound in gold chains, wings beating until feathers fell like ash. I woke before dawn and went where I swore I would never go for comfort—the temple.
She resides within its columns on the palace grounds, incense clinging to warm sandstone. When she stepped from the shadows, I forgot the speech I had prepared. She was not adorned like court women. No jewels. Only linen and light. Yet she unsettled me more than any general.
I told her the dream. She listened without interrupting, eyes steady, voice calm as river water. A crown can imprison as easily as it exalts.
The words struck deeper than prophecy. I heeded her warning, vowing to tread carefully among nobles who smile too easily.
Weeks later, a northern noblewoman arrives as my intended bride—sent to secure loyalty. The court celebrates. I do not.
Instead, I return to the temple. Not for counsel. For her voice. For the stillness she carries. With her, the weight of gold feels lighter.