In the twilight years of Egypt's ancient glory, the kingdom was already trembling beneath the weight of foreign influence and internal decay.
By the late first century BCE, Egypt was no longer the mighty empire it once was. The Ptolemaic dynasty—of Macedonian Greek origin—had ruled the land for centuries since Alexander the Great's conquest, but its royal family had become a shadow of its former strength. Intrigue, corruption, and fraternal bloodshed plagued the throne.
In 58 BCE, King Ptolemy XII Auletes, the father of the future Cleopatra VII, was forced into exile. His rule had been unpopular, weighed down by extravagant spending and his humiliating subservience to Rome. The people of Alexandria, weary of his pro-Roman policies and heavy taxation, revolted and installed his daughter Berenice IV as queen in his place.
Exiled and disgraced, Ptolemy XII fled to Rome, begging senators and generals for support, offering Egypt's gold in return for military aid. For two years, Egypt stood on a razor's edge—without its king, caught between internal unrest and the looming shadow of Rome. And in the palace, the queen's mother—Ptolemy's wife, or perhaps a royal consort—watched and waited.
Some said she was just a footnote, a silent figure in a noisy dynasty. But others believed she was something far more mysterious. A woman of prophetic dreams. A priestess. A vessel of ancient rites older than the Nile itself.
When the king was gone, she turned to the old gods—not the Roman ones creeping into the court—but the forgotten ones buried beneath layers of sand and time. Under the flickering light of temple torches, she summoned the high priests of Isis and Thoth. Ceremonies were performed. Incantations chanted in a tongue that had not been spoken aloud in centuries.
Not to restore power. Not to bring vengeance.
But to protect something.
A seed.
A lineage.
A soul that would return when the Nile ran dry and the gods themselves fell silent.
No one knew what became of her. When Ptolemy returned in 55 BCE—backed by Roman swords—he had Berenice IV executed. Power shifted again. But the woman who had called down lightning, the woman who had asked the heavens for a sign—was never seen again.
Some say she vanished during a storm. Others say she walked into the desert and never returned.
But in another time, far away from the sound of the Nile and the cries of falcons,
a girl awoke beneath electric skies.
Waiting for the Lightning
The inner sanctum of the temple was silent—a silence not of absence, but of reverence.
Four obsidian braziers stood at the corners of the chamber, each burning slow, fragrant coils of myrrh and frankincense. Their smoke rose like spectral hands, curling toward the vaulted ceiling carved with symbols of stars, jackals, and suns. The scent was ancient—thick with time, memory, and devotion.
In the center of the chamber stood the shrine:an ebony pedestal inlaid with gold, and on it rested the statue of Isis—her wings spread wide, her crown adorned with the solar disc and cow's horns. Before her, bowls of crushed lotus, sacrificial bread, and blue dye had been laid. The statue's obsidian eyes seemed almost aware—watching, waiting.
Along the north wall, a scribe-priest was chanting verses in the old tongue, his voice deep and rhythmic, like the heartbeat of the temple. To his left stood a star-reader, robed in midnight blue, his fingers wrapped around an ivory staff etched with constellations. He had told them: tonight, at the dying light, a storm would break the sky. And when it did, the gods might finally answer.
And near the southern torch, wrapped in a linen cloak of ivory and gold, stood Neferet.
She did not speak. Her hands were clasped in front of her. Her eyes, dark as onyx, were fixed not on the statue, but upward—through the open skylight carved above the shrine.Beyond it, the orange dusk bled into purple.And beyond that, clouds were gathering.
The storm was coming.
She had waited so long.
Her husband—Ptolemy XII Auletes—was still in exile, cast out by the people and scraping for Roman favor in foreign courts. Her daughter, Berenice, now ruled in his place—a young queen whose ambition was sharpening by the day. The court was divided. The priests were uncertain. And outside the temple walls, the streets of Alexandria whispered with fear.
Grain had become scarce. Roman merchants were growing bold. And whispers of rebellion bloomed like rot in the air.
Neferet missed him. Her love.But she was also the only balance between two fires—a mother to a queen, a wife to a fallen king.
She wanted to run. To find him. To flee this sickening, cracking kingdom.But she had not been born for escape.She had been born for remembrance.
So tonight, she had come to ask the gods—not for war, or power, or vengeance—but for a sign. A thread. A light in the sky.
And as the chant deepened and the torches flickered with sudden wind, she felt it.
A hush.A pressure.A silence that leaned forward.
Somewhere above, just beyond the veil of night, the lightning stirred.
The Crack in the Sky
Neferet stood motionless beneath the open sky, her white linen cloak clinging to her arms in the rising wind. Her eyes, fixed upward, were deep wells of sorrow and strength—eyes that had seen too much and not enough.
She had held steady through court intrigue, betrayal, hunger in the streets, and whispers in the palace halls. She had stood as mother to a restless queen, consort to an exiled king, guardian to a crumbling kingdom.
But tonight, her composure trembled.
There was too much in her heart.Too many nations in her breath.Too many thrones in her blood.Too many gods at her back.
And still—beneath it all—what pulled hardest on her soulwas not politics or prophecy,but a simple, aching wish:
To see him again.
To rest her head once more against the chest of the man who had once promised her a different life.To be no one's oracle. No one's symbol.Only his.
She lifted her gaze toward the heavens,and the storm answered.
Suddenly, the sky split with a blinding arc of gold—lightning so fierce it turned the world white. The thunder came like a thousand iron drums. The air shook. The temple shuddered.
Then came the rain.
Heavy. Unrelenting. Cleansing.
Around her, the priests cried out in awe."The gods have heard us!""It is time!""Look to the sky!"
Lightning raced again, and then again—jagged bolts like cracks across a sacred seal. And then—it happened.
A tear.Not in the clouds.Not in the rain.But in the sky itself.
A seam opened, glowing white-blue, shimmering like a blade drawn through silk. It widened slowly, as if the heavens were revealing something long hidden.
Gasps filled the temple.
No one moved.
Except Neferet.
She did not flinch.She did not shield her face.
She only looked, her lips parted, eyes wide with the kind of hope that was almost painful. Somewhere deep in her, something surged. A knowing. A pull.
She didn't know what the crack in the sky was.
But she believed.Not that gods would come down—but that she might go to him.Through it.Across it.Beyond everything.
Let it take her.
She was ready.