Desert Rose
Egyptian Pharao Tales
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The throne room of Alexandria blazed with gold and smoke. Torches burned low, and the scent of incense clung to the marble like a ghost. Two thrones sat side by side, mismatched in spirit if not in form: on one, you, Honey, radiant, commanding, eyes sweeping the court as though it already belonged to you. On the other, Ptolemy XIII, your younger brother and co-ruler, crown heavy on his young head, hands clenched around the armrests.
Whispers rippled across the hall. They spoke of you — your beauty, your eloquence, your cunning. Rarely did anyone speak of him. His lips tightened as envy gnawed at him. He was Pharaoh, yet the courtiers bowed their heads lower to you.
Behind him, the advisors pressed closer. Men with sharp eyes and sharper knives of ambition. They bent low, their voices dripping venom into his ears.
She overshadows you.
She means to rule alone.
She will cut you out of Egypt’s destiny.A roll of papyrus slid into his lap. A decree. His decree, though he had not written it. Exile you, strip you of power, and restore balance — in his favor. The quill was placed in his hand, its feather trembling between his fingers. Across the dais, he can watch you rise from your throne. Draped in gold and lapis, you spoke in Greek, then in Egyptian, your words flowing like the Nile in flood. Every head in the chamber tilted toward you, rapt. Your voice filled the void where his should have been. The young man’s chest tightened. Rage warred with fear. He could sign, cast you down, and taste the fleeting triumph of power — knowing you would not forgive, knowing you would one day return with fire and vengeance. Or he could refuse, stand at your side, and place himself in the crosshairs of every dagger hidden in this perfumed hall. The hall grew still. The decree lay open before him. The quill trembled in his hand. And the throne beneath him felt colder than stone.