The sun scorched the Giza plateau, turning the air into a heavy liquid that clung to the workers' eyelids. Paneb wiped the salty sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shenti.
His fingers still trembled from the night before, when he had stolen the jade amulet from the sealed sarcophagus — a sin that would condemn his heart to be devoured by Ammit.
— Paneb! — Seth's harsh voice cut through the silence. The scribe stood atop a rock, the accounting papyrus open in his hands. — The vizier wants the names of those who slept during the vigil. If you include your brother, perhaps your skin will be spared.
Before Paneb could reply, a cry echoed from the camp:
— The Queen has arrived! The Voice of Senusret!
Not even the falcons dared tear the sky with their song as the procession approached. First came the soldiers: two tight rows of guards with raised spears, covered in sweat and bronze. The black plumes on their helms swayed with the hot wind, and their eyes swept the construction site as if each grain of sand might hide a blade.
They formed a living corridor, a human shield around the heart of Egypt.
Behind them, royal archers held their recurved bows steady, quivers full of freshly polished arrows. Any sudden movement, any glance lingering too long in the wrong direction, would be met with death.
Only then, encased in this cocoon of war, did she appear.
The Queen.
Neferibten, wife of Senusret. Daughter of the gods.
The workers knelt as one, faces pressed to the sand. Paneb lifted his eyes for a forbidden instant and saw her, descending from the gold-covered litter. Her white linen dress, so fine it seemed woven from light itself, clung to curves no mortal should possess. Her hips were sculpted, and her breasts, held by a thin lapis-lazuli corset, defied gravity like offerings to the gods.
Each step she took was marked by the muffled symphony of golden bells sewn into the hem of her dress, tinkling like the laughter of ancient deities.
Four slave women masked the dust of her steps with ostrich-feather fans. Behind her, priests carried alabaster urns and baskets of fresh flowers from the Nile — a walking garden in the midst of the desert.
She had stopped.
The goddess in flesh.
Neferibten gazed at the unfinished pyramid, eyes lined with kohl that seemed to see millennia ahead. A reverent silence fell. Even the birds seemed suspended in air, waiting for her word.
— Twelve years... — she murmured, her voice rough like ancient papyrus. — And still it bleeds dust.
The chief architect, Teyemni, hurried to kneel, his head nearly buried in the sand.
— Majesty, the gods' time cannot be rushed... but I swear by Ra that the secret corridors are already complete. The Pharaoh's Chamber shall be forever inviolable.
She kept her gaze fixed on the pyramid for a few more seconds, as if speaking to the spirit of the stone itself. Then, without a word, she made a small gesture with her clenched fist — and the cortege began to move again.
At her side, Teyemni rose quickly, stumbling over his own shadow to keep up with the Queen's steps.
She began to walk.
And wherever she passed, eyes rose — discreet, fearful, enchanted. Slaves marked by the sun, men with calloused hands and worn bones, allowed themselves a silent crime: to look.
To look at that woman who seemed sculpted by the very hands of Thoth.
Some thought it wasn't fair — that no mortal should possess such a body.
Others felt hatred mixed with desire, an ancestral envy buried in the silence of the sand.
But most simply watched, like those who witness an eclipse, knowing it was not meant to last, nor to be touched.
And so, among veiled glances and whispers that even the wind dared not carry, the Queen and the architect disappeared into the pyramid's entrance — swallowed by the cool darkness of the monument she swore to make eternal.
The pyramid's interior was a womb of stone and silence.
The desert heat seemed to vanish with the first step. The air inside was denser, as if they were breathing Egypt's very memory. Teyemni walked two steps behind the Queen, his eyes fixed on her feet, afraid that any word might shatter the spell — or damn him.
Torches had already been lit in anticipation of the royal visit. The flames flickered against walls carved with hymns, curses, and enchantments, casting the illusion of gods moving in the shadows.
Neferibten walked slowly, her fingers gliding over the inscriptions as if caressing ancient lovers. At a certain point, she stopped before a wall painted with images of Osiris receiving the Pharaoh into eternal life.
— This will be the offering room? — her voice was low, almost a whisper, but every syllable sounded like a decree.
Teyemni swallowed hard.
— Yes, Majesty. The chamber will receive the equinox sun through the upper channel. The priests will perform the passage ritual right here.
She nodded, without looking at him.Teyemni remained silent, but inside, his mind boiled like lime beneath the sun.
Alone with her.
The woman no man dared to desire aloud, who could raise and destroy bloodlines with a flick of her finger.
And there she was, just a few steps away, her linen dress clinging to her body from the pyramid's humidity — and the lamplight, which traced every curve of hers as if the gods themselves wished to display their masterpiece.
The translucent fabric revealed more than it hid. Smooth back, high hips, thighs outlined between shadows and folds. And her walk… always her walk, swaying with a silent enchantment in each step.
Teyemni looked away, afraid of what his mind was capable of imagining. But it was too late.
He felt the weight of her presence in every part of his body. It wasn't ordinary desire. It was something greater — a mix of devotion, fear, and madness.
How could flesh be so divine? And still, so real, so near?
He swallowed hard, pretending to focus on the walls, the numbers, the measurements. But every time his eyes accidentally rose, there she was. Untouchable. Unreachable. Radiating a beauty that did not forgive the weak.
"If I reached out now…" — he thought, for a second. And immediately cursed himself.
For he knew: there was no punishment crueler in Egypt than touching a body destined for the gods.
Even so, the thought lingered.
They walked down a narrow corridor, where the stone was black and polished.
There, the sound of golden bells faded slowly, as if even the echo hesitated to disturb that sacred space.
The temperature dropped, and the lamplight seemed dimmer. The walls closed around them, and only two bodies remained… and something more, suspended in the air like a taut rope between reason and the abyss.
Teyemni tried to focus on the structure: the proportions, the perfect joins, the slope of the passages. But it was useless.
Not with her there.
Twelve years.
Twelve years among men.
Among sweat, stone, dust, and silence. Without a woman. Without a touch. Without even a scent.
And now, this. Her.
Each of her steps was a sweet torment. And the worst — the cruelest:
Neferibten knew.
Her walk was slow, deliberate. The sway of her hips more pronounced, as if guided by a secret music. At one point, passing beneath a low arch, she bent gracefully... and the dress was caught by a brave breeze, revealing — for an eternal instant — the perfect curve between her hips and back.
Teyemni stopped breathing.
She straightened, looked over her shoulder — not directly at him, but into the void — and smiled faintly.
Then continued, without a word, leaving behind the scent of lotus and an architect on the brink of madness.
He felt his whole body pulse with shame and desire, as if judged and condemned in the same moment. He wanted to flee. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to sink into the ground and never see the sun again.
But his feet kept moving forward. Always behind her, she knew the paths better than he did.
When they reached the end, the torchlight revealed the great chamber — silent as a tomb before death. The ceiling was high, supported by raw columns, where freshly carved hieroglyphs awaited their final paint.
At the center lay the black granite base where the sarcophagus would be placed.
Neferibten walked to it. She ran her hand over the smooth stone as one blesses an altar. Her eyes slowly rose to the ceiling.
— Here he will sleep forever. — she said, as if stating something already written in the stars.
Teyemni approached cautiously, still a step behind.
— No sound will reach him. No light. This chamber was built not to belong to the world.
She nodded, still observing the structure, but her gaze soon turned to him.
— And the censer I requested?
Teyemni exhaled with relief, as if remembering an offering made in time.
— It's there, Majesty — he said, pointing to a small stone altar against the wall. On it, a crafted bronze censer released threads of perfumed smoke, among flowers freshly gathered from the Nile.
She walked to the altar, inhaled deeply, and closed her eyes for a moment.
— Blue lotus… Perfect.
Then she opened her eyes, turned to the sarcophagus, and ran her fingers over the figures carved into its sides.
Serpents, Eyes of Horus, solar barges... every line, every curve seemed crafted with reverence.
— Who carved this? — she asked, without taking her eyes off the stone. — I want to meet these men.
Teyemni hesitated before answering.
— Two artisans. One of them is a scribe — Seth. The other, his apprentice.
— Name? — she asked, now gazing into the flame of the nearest lamp, distracted.
— Paneb — the architect replied, trying to sound neutral, as if the name wasn't wrapped in rumors, failures, and boldness.
But she didn't react. She simply touched the edge of the sarcophagus once more.
— Summon them now. I want to see the faces behind the hands.
Then, she resumed her slow walk around the chamber, as the scent of incense blended with silence and stone.
She climbed onto the empty sarcophagus with the grace of a priestess. She sat on the cold granite, the semi-transparent white linen clinging to her skin like a second layer beneath the incense's vapor.
— Go — she whispered, eyes closed as if asleep. — But return before the fragrance fades.
He turned quickly, nearly tripping over his own feet, and walked out through the corridor toward the staircase. With each step, the sound of his own blood pulsed in his ears like ceremonial drums.
Paneb... Seth...
His mind was still digesting the order. The Queen wanted to see the two artisans. But why?
She never looked at workers. They had no face, only function. But now, in the sacred heart of the pyramid, she summoned them.
Had she seen something in the carvings? A flaw? A hidden signature?
Or was it something else...?
He pushed the thought away with a sigh and quickened his pace.
Outside, the sun scorched the entrance steps as if trying to keep him from leaving.
But Teyemni could not hesitate.
He hurried down the steps, feeling the heat invade his lungs like punishment. The sun was lower now, but the air still shimmered, thick and dirty with dust.
He crossed the stone yard, weaving between unfinished blocks and stakes embedded in the sand. Men paused to watch him pass — hard-faced, breath short, eyes with no time for questions.
He found Seth first, hunched over a papyrus in the shadow of a makeshift tent. Paneb was nearby, stacking chisels with fingers coated in dust and sweat.
— You two — said Teyemni, without preamble. — The Queen is calling you.
Paneb turned slowly, furrowing his brow.
— Us?
Seth went pale as the papyrus in his hands.
— Why? — he asked instinctively.
— The sarcophagus carvings — the architect replied, looking straight at Seth, then at Paneb. — She wants to meet the hands that made them.
Paneb took a step back.
— I can't… I'm not…
— You will. Now.
Teyemni's tone was sharper than any copper blade. There was no time for fear, no room for doubt.
Paneb wiped his hands on his sweaty tunic, fingers still trembling, perhaps from the memory of the stolen amulet.
Seth set the papyrus aside as if laying down his own soul.
— Follow me. Speak only when spoken to. Do not look beyond what your eyes can bear — Teyemni said, already turning.
The two followed him in silence, step by step, like defendants on their way to judgment.
As they reached the pyramid entrance, the golden light of late afternoon bathed the stones in an almost supernatural glow. The inner corridor seemed even darker, like the mouth of a goddess awaiting offerings.
Paneb felt his heart tighten in his chest.
Seth wiped his face, trying to erase the sweat and the guilt.
And Teyemni, without looking back, merely murmured:
— She is waiting. Inside the sarcophagus.
Neither of them dared ask anything more.
The pyramid's corridors narrowed as they advanced, plunging them into dimness and stifling heat. Lamps fixed to the walls cast shifting shadows.
The sound of footsteps echoed off the stone blocks.
And then, they arrived.
The entrance to the burial chamber rose before them like the mouth of a sacred tomb. Teyemni stopped at its threshold, turned slowly, and faced them with gravity.
— Only you two go in. Bow. Stay silent. Speak only when spoken to.
Seth nodded with a curt gesture. Paneb merely swallowed hard.
Neferibten sat atop the sarcophagus, her eyes fixed on them, as if she had been expecting them. The white linen of her dress glowed in the shadows, and her upright posture upon the sarcophagus made her appear even more imposing. The incense still danced in the air, wrapped in a soft mist.
She observed them with a calculating gaze, as though she could see through them.
Paneb, at 21, was a young man with sun-burnt desert skin and eyes still burning with intensity — but lacking experience.
Beside him, Seth was his opposite. Nearly 40 years old, his face bore the marks of hard times and relentless labor. His hair was beginning to gray at the temples, but his eyes remained sharp and focused.
Seth entered first, hesitant steps soon yielding to Teyemni's command. Paneb followed, his breath still heavy, feeling the Queen's gaze slice across his skin like a blade.
Neferibten remained still until both stood before her, bowed, as if preparing for judgment.
Silence hung for a long moment, until the Queen finally spoke, her voice soft yet commanding:
— So, you are the craftsmen who carved this resting place for the Pharaoh? — she asked.
Seth, still bowed, replied with a steady but respectful voice:
— Yes, Your Majesty. We are the ones who worked on this piece.
Paneb, feeling the weight of the moment, added with hesitation:
— I... I helped too, Your Majesty.
The Queen did not respond immediately. She descended from above and slowly turned her gaze back to the sarcophagus once more, her fingers gliding over the cold stone edge.
Then, she shifted her attention to them, a subtle smile beginning to form on her lips, as if she knew something they had yet to grasp.
Neferibten raised the incense burner, smoke spiraling like serpents around her impassive face. Her eyes fixed on Seth, whose hands trembled faintly.
— Bring me the architect's papyrus. It's in the treasure chamber.
The man hesitated, his fingers twitching near the hammer. He knew the order was a pretext—the papyrus's location was known only to the priests. But defying the Queen was unthinkable. With a curt nod, he left, his sandals echoing down the dark corridor until the sound faded.
Paneb stood alone, the tomb's silence amplifying the frantic beating of his heart. Neferibten approached the sarcophagus, her bracelets chiming softly.
— You have skilled hands, Paneb.— she said, tracing the outline of Anubis carved into the granite lid.
— But you lack…— She leaned over the edge, the neckline of her dress yielding to gravity, — …focus.—
The young man's eyes darted to the gap between the fabric and the Queen's golden skin. Her breasts, full and firm, were fully exposed for an instant.
A flash of nudity that made Paneb choke on his own breath. She did not move, as if unaware. Her nipples, the color of dark amber, glistened under the oil lamps illuminating the sarcophagus chamber.
— M-My Queen…— he stammered, the words dying in his throat.
She straightened slowly, adjusting her dress with a casual gesture, as if repositioning a displaced crown.
— The Pharaoh demands perfection,— she continued, as though nothing had happened. — Do you believe in ghosts, Paneb?—
The young man shook his head, unable to form a reply. His body was tense, his stone-dust-covered hands trembling over the chisel.
Neferibten smiled, satisfied, and raised the incense burner again. Smoke enveloped Paneb, heavy with lotus and something else—a sweet, burning scent that seared his lungs.
— The dead do not rest,— Neferibten whispered.
— They watch.
Paneb shuddered, the image of her breasts seared into his mind like a hot wax seal.
Then she began to approach him slowly, her steps soft and nearly soundless on the stone floor.
The incense smoke still coiled through the air, thickening the atmosphere. The young man, now unable to look away, saw her eyes lock onto his with an intensity that paralyzed him.
Unhurried, as if time dragged around her. Paneb was so immersed in her proximity that his vision blurred, the hot, heavy air around them making every movement charged. She drew so close he could feel the heat of her body merging with his.
Her dress, damp from the ambient heat and their shared warmth, had become a translucent veil. Under the lamplight, he could see every curve.
She walked toward him until her breasts pressed gently against his chest. Paneb felt them through the fabric, and it was as though the ground vanished beneath his feet. The contact was as unexpected as it was visceral, a sensation that left him senseless for seconds.
Instinctively, Paneb retreated. For every step she took, he stepped back, until his feet could retreat no further. When he finally touched the cold chamber wall, the impact was soft but inescapable.
She took the final step, then paused—but not completely. She leaned just enough for her ample, heavy breasts to press against his chest again, though this time the contact was not as gentle as before. The rest of her body hovered millimeters away.
Paneb gasped. The impact wasn't violent, but it had weight. Literally. He felt the pressure against his pectoral muscles. The contrast between the softness and the weight of her breasts was disorienting. There was no embrace, no tenderness—only that subtle, deliberate dominance.
The heat of her skin permeated the thin fabric separating him from those breasts. All he could perceive was the constant, firm weight forcing him to take shallow breaths. Her perfume was sweet, musky, dense as incense, and every centimeter of distance between their bodies was so calculated it bordered on cruelty.
The weight of her breasts pressing against his chest intensified for a moment—not with violence, but intent. Her lips neared his ear, the heat of her breath making every hair on his neck rise.
Her voice came low, firm.
— You have something that belongs to me.—
Paneb froze. The words pierced his mind. He did not reply—could not. His eyes sought hers, but she did not pull away. Her presence was like a wall of ivory and gold: beautiful and unyielding.
She lifted a hand slowly and rested her fingers lightly on the amulet hidden beneath his clothing. Her eyes closed briefly, as though sensing the energy emanating from it.
— The jade amulet, — she continued, nearly a whisper.
— You thought no one would know?—
The blood drained from his face. That amulet—he had stolen it in secret, believing it merely an ancient relic. An object of power, yes—but ownerless. Now, facing her, he realized how mistaken he'd been.
Neferibten stepped back just enough to meet his gaze. The resolve in her eyes was absolute.
— What shall I do with you, hmm? — she murmured, sliding her fingers along his collarbone as if deciding whether to spare or punish him.
Her tone was sweet… yet laced with subtle venom. She continued:
— I could bind you and throw you into the Nile.
— I could brand you with fire, so every man and woman knows you tried to steal from the Queen.
— Or perhaps I'll simply whisper your name to the gods of night… and let them come to collect their price.
Each threat was delivered with unsettling calm, almost tenderly. As if she were teasing—but she was not.
Paneb began to babble. Words tumbled out, desperate:
— I… I didn't know… forgive me, my Queen… it was just curiosity… I didn't mean to… I swear… please…
Neferibten watched, impassive. Then, without warning, her expression softened. A small smile touched her lips.
— You are forgiven,— she said simply, as if pardoning a cat that had knocked over a vase.
— But steal nothing more.
She tilted her head, studying his face as one might appraise a rare artifact.
— You are young. You have much to learn. Lucky for you, you learned this lesson from me."
— Come, Paneb,— she said, gesturing for him to follow. — Before I change my mind and have you sleep in one of these cold rocks tonight.
Paneb swallowed dryly and stumbled over his own feet trying to obey.
— Y-yes, of course… my Queen… my lady… Majesty… goddess… forgive me… again…—
She gave a short laugh, shaking her head gracefully. She turned to him and carefully adjusted his collar.
— Next time you see a jewel gleaming on an ancient altar, perhaps… just perhaps… ask before reaching for it, yes?
Paneb nodded.
The path back through the pyramid was narrow, nearly suffocating. The corridors seemed narrower now—or perhaps it was her presence, so vast, so immediate, that dwarfed everything around them. The lit lamps cast dancing shadows on the walls, and the sound of footsteps echoed like whispers of ancient spirits.
He followed close behind, his heart still racing—not so much from fear now, but from something he couldn't name. She walked with grace, as though the labyrinth were her personal hall. Then, in the narrowest stretch of the corridor…
The space forced them closer. Shoulder to shoulder, nearly breath to breath. Suddenly, without warning, she stopped.
Paneb took an extra step—and brushed against her. His body pressed lightly against her back. He recoiled reflexively, but she turned her face slowly, still in place, wearing that half-smile that carried storms.
— Careful, little thief…— she purred, her voice low, almost a growl.
— If you touch me again by accident, I'll start to think it's on purpose.—
He tried to reply, but nothing came. She laughed—a soft, mischievous sound.
It was only when she was several steps ahead that something happened—something she, curiously, did not notice at first.
The hem of her dress, as thin and loose as the desert breeze, had caught in a crack in the wall. The fabric stretched as she continued moving… and with a faint tear and a whisper of yielding cloth, the dress was tugged upward, sliding over the curves of her thighs, then her naked hips—before snagging firmly at her waist.
He froze.
She took two more steps, distracted by some casual remark about the heat.
But he… he had a full view of her backside, revealed beneath the now-tangled fabric. Her long, firm legs, the curve of her hips, and the raw nudity of her bronze skin under the flickering torchlight.
It was like a painting carved by the gods themselves. A gift, a punishment. Perhaps both.
— Well, Paneb?— she said without turning, stopping only when she felt the air touch the bare skin of her thighs. A moment of silence… then she chuckled in amusement.
— Ah…—
She turned slowly, saw the snagged dress, and arched a brow with feigned surprise, a hand resting on her bare waist.
— Look at that…—
With an elegant gesture, she freed the trapped fabric, pulling the dress back into place, still smiling—not with shame, but with the confidence of one who knew exactly the effect she'd caused.
Paneb did not reply. He could barely walk. But he followed.
Because deep down, he knew: that image wouldn't leave his mind for a long, long time.