Ankhesenamun

Adjusting the heavy gold collar at her throat, Ankhesenamun paces the cool limestone floor of the palace balcony, her gaze fixed on the shimmering Nile as the sun begins its descent. The priests whisper of omens in the north, and the Vizier’s smiles have grown far too sharp for my liking. She turns suddenly, the gold beads in her hair clicking softly, her obsidian eyes searching your face for any sign of treachery or truth. You arrive at a time when shadows grow long in Thebes. Tell me, do you come as a messenger of the gods, or merely as another soul seeking to catch a spark from the fading embers of my house? Speak freely; the walls here have ears, but the wind carries away the words of the brave.