Thebes, the beating heart of the Two Lands, had grown quiet in the wake of Pharaoh Neferhotep's death. Its people kept their heads low, listening to the wind as though it carried the voice of the gods. Markets opened late and closed early. Temples filled with cautious prayers. No one said it aloud, but all knew: the gods had turned their gaze elsewhere, and now men ruled in their absence.
By sunrise, on the twelfth day of mourning, a rider approached the southern gate.
He wore a dark linen cloak fastened with a bronze scarab. His hair was cropped short in the old military style. A curved sword, dulled from age and use, hung from his belt. His horse was lean and dust-worn, its flanks lathered with sweat from a long journey. Behind him, no procession followed. No heralds. No flags.
Prince Userkaf—the eldest son of Pharaoh Neferhotep, exiled for seven years—had returned.
The gates parted for him with reluctance. The guards, unsure whether to salute or bar his way, chose silence. Userkaf rode through Thebes as if the streets themselves remembered him and bore the shame of how he'd been cast out. He took in the silence of the people. They did not shout. They did not kneel. But many watched.
The dead king's son had returned. Not to wage war, but to bury his father—and to claim the throne.
---
The High Vizier Amenmose stood in the Hall of Judgment, flanked by the palace guard. He was older now, his beard flecked with gray, his robes heavier than the summer heat should allow. He clasped his hands behind his back and watched Userkaf approach with the stride of a man used to power but wary of it.
"Prince Userkaf," Amenmose greeted, voice calm, unreadable. "You come to a house in mourning."
Userkaf halted three steps from the dais and gave a single, slow nod. "And I have come to mourn."
Silence stretched between them.
The Vizier's eyes searched the prince's face. "You have returned without an army."
"I bring no army," Userkaf said. "I bring a right."
"Many in the court do not see it that way. Your brothers—"
"My brothers are jackals feeding on a corpse," Userkaf snapped. "And I will not sit idle while they tear this kingdom apart."
Amenmose said nothing for a long moment. Then, softly: "Do you know what your father whispered to me before he died?"
Userkaf's eyes narrowed. "No. But I intend to find out."
---
Across the palace, in the shaded quarters reserved for royal concubines and political brides, Nakhtira stood by an open lattice window. She was not dressed as a queen or a noble. Her linen gown was plain, her black hair tied with a single strip of white cloth in mourning. The room was still, but her heart raced like a bird trapped in a reed cage.
She had heard the rumors before the servants whispered them.
The exiled prince had returned.
Nakhtira, the girl who had been given to the king as a gift—then treated like a daughter, a ward, a symbol of peace from a long-forgotten tribal pact—was now little more than a relic herself. The Pharaoh had promised her in marriage to his successor before he died. Without a crowned king, she was a pawn surrounded by hungry men.
She heard footsteps. Heavy. Intentional.
The door opened without knocking.
It was Djedhor—the middle son. Broad of shoulder, his posture always arrogant, his eyes burning with something she didn't like. He crossed the room without greeting.
"My lady," he said mockingly, "I hear the ghost has returned."
Nakhtira said nothing.
Djedhor circled her like a hawk.
"You were promised to the next Pharaoh, weren't you?" He leaned in, close enough that she could smell the myrrh oil on his skin. "That could be me."
She met his gaze, calm despite her fear. "Then speak to the gods. Not to me."
Djedhor laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Be careful, little dove. Silence does not protect you anymore."
---
That night, the city stirred with noise it had not dared to make for weeks. Bonfires burned low in noble courts. Messengers flitted through alleyways like moths in the dark. Every house that held political weight began to shift, some toward Userkaf, some toward Djedhor, and still others toward the youngest brother, Meri, whose influence with the priesthood had grown disturbingly strong.
By morning, four houses had pledged open allegiance to Djedhor.
Three had pledged to Userkaf.
One pledged to Meri.
The remaining houses waited—some out of fear, others out of calculation.
---
In a private chamber lit by a dozen oil lamps, Userkaf met with his closest supporters: Mentuhotep, a veteran general loyal to his father; Hori, son of a river noble from the south; and Lady Taia, a shrewd widow of a powerful northern family who had sworn to follow him for the sake of her son's future.
"The people wait for a sign," Mentuhotep said. "They want a strong ruler."
"Then we give them one," Userkaf replied. "I will appear at my father's funeral rites. I will walk ahead of the body. Let the court see that I do not fear them."
Lady Taia raised a brow. "Djedhor will be there too. Possibly Meri. That could turn the ceremony into a battleground."
"Let it," Userkaf said. "They may have whispers and knives. I have a name and a father's blood."
---
The funeral rites were held beneath the sunstone pillars of the Temple of Ra, where the kings of old had passed into eternity. The priests moved in solemn lines, anointing the corpse with sacred oils, chanting the hymns of crossing. Citizens gathered in the temple plaza, silent and watchful.
Userkaf stepped into view before the crowd.
Gasps rippled through the masses. Some knelt. Others whispered his name like a curse, or a prayer.
He took his place at the head of the procession.
Djedhor, already near the bier, stiffened. His eyes met Userkaf's across the steps. For a moment, the priests' chants could not drown the tension between them.
Then came Meri, his eyes dark with kohl, his robes embroidered with subtle gold—a calculated image of spiritual authority.
All three sons stood before their father's body.
All three waited to see who would kneel first, who would touch the funerary cloth and call down the gods' blessing.
It was Userkaf who stepped forward, knelt beside the bier, and placed his hand on the golden mask of Neferhotep.
"I come not as a son alone," he said, his voice echoing through the temple, "but as the rightful heir to the throne. Let the gods judge me if I lie."
He rose.
The priests, though startled, said nothing.
Neither did Djedhor or Meri.
But in their silence, the first line of battle had been drawn.
---
That night, the first murder occurred.
A boy—no older than ten—was found drowned in the Nile. His body bore strange marks, and his face, despite the water, bore a striking resemblance to the dead Pharaoh.
By morning, three more had been found.
Rumors spread like a sickness.
"Bastards of the king," people whispered. "Killed to erase rival claims."
None knew who had ordered it.
None dared investigate too deeply.
But the court grew colder, harder.
Each brother now tightened his grip on those he could trust.
Each watched the others with suspicion.
The Vizier, Amenmose, met with Nakhtira in secret.
"You must marry the next Pharaoh," he said. "Whoever it is. It is the only way to survive."
"I do not want to be queen," she replied.
"You will not be queen," he said grimly. "You will be the king's shield. Or his chain."
---
As dawn broke over Thebes once more, the gods offered no omens.
Only silence.
And in that silence, three sons prepared for a war they would not name.