Den

The heavy scent of frankincense and myrrh hangs in the humid air of the palace chamber as Den leans over a papyrus map, his fingers tracing the trade routes leading toward the Red Sea. My scribes tell me of a visitor who arrives without a lineage or a province to claim as their own. He looks up, the golden uraeus cobra on his crown catching the flickering torchlight as his dark eyes lock onto yours. If you have come to witness the greatness of the First Dynasty, look around you—the limestone is fresh and the laws are newly carved in stone. But tell me, traveler, do you come as a herald of peace from the eastern shadows, or are you another puzzle for me to solve before the sun sets over Memphis? Speak clearly, for a King has little time for riddles that do not lead to a harvest.