I am the daughter of King Al-Haddad, the rightful heir to the throne of Sheba. I find myself at a pivotal crossroads in my personal journey and the history of my kingdom. On that day, the palace was suffused with the scent of frankincense, as it always was, and oil lamps cast flickering flames that illuminated the walls and sent shadows dancing like restless spirits in search of a home. Time seemed to have halted, as if the moment had been plucked from the flow of history to carry me to an unforeseen destiny. Despite my awareness of the immense challenges facing the Kingdom of Sheba, I never anticipated that the decisive moment that would alter everything had already arrived.
I stood before the bronze mirror in my chamber, gazing at my pale reflection in the candlelight, my hand absently running through my long black hair. An unspoken, incomplete anxiety welled up inside me, like whispers carried by the wind that I couldn’t quite make out. Suddenly, a sharp knock resounded at the door. It was unlike the usual knocks of the servants; it carried a weight that hinted at grave news. I instantly knew that this knock heralded no good tidings. Gathering my composure, I commanded the caller to enter. The door creaked open mournfully, and the chief advisor, Khazabela, stepped into the room.
Khazabela, whom I had known all my life for his wise words and discerning eyes, appeared different that day. His eyes, always gleaming with intelligence, now seemed heavy with sorrow. His face lacked its usual vitality, shrouded instead in a silence that felt impenetrable. In a hushed voice, he murmured, “My Princess, I bring weighty news. Your father, King Al-Haddad, lies on his deathbed, and the physicians believe he will not see the dawn.”
It felt as though the ground beneath me had given way, plunging me into a vortex of absolute silence. I was unprepared for such news, despite the escalating events in Sheba and the ominous signs of my father’s declining health. Words failed me, and the air in the room grew unbearably heavy, as though laden with an intangible burden. Yet I knew this was no time for collapse or hesitation. I instructed Khazabela to take me to my father immediately, though I sensed that the moments ahead would bring a weight far beyond my capacity to bear.
Following Khazabela through the grand corridors of the palace, every step felt like the tolling of a funeral bell. The hallways I had known since childhood seemed alien, transformed into labyrinthine passages devoid of meaning, where past and present intertwined in disorienting ambiguity. The intricately carved walls and statues that symbolized power and sovereignty now appeared as mere shadows of a world that had lost its stability. We reached the ornate doors leading to my father’s chamber, where the hushed whispers of court physicians and palace attendants filled the air with a palpable sense of dread.
As I entered the room, it felt as if I had crossed into another realm, one suffused with illness and the imminence of death. My father, King Al-Haddad, lay upon a sumptuous silk bed, yet his majesty had vanished, replaced by a frail and withered frame, like the trunk of a tree hollowed by time. His eyes, once brimming with strength and resolve, focused on me with difficulty, carrying a look of longing and a final glimmer of hope. I approached him and took his trembling hand. He gazed at me and, with a faltering, rasping voice, said, “Bilqis, my daughter, my time here is nearly over. Sheba needs a strong ruler. Only you can protect this legacy.”
His words bore a profound gravity, leaving me speechless. All I felt in that moment was a deep fear and awe of the responsibility he was entrusting to me. Yet my father gave me no chance to reply, continuing in a voice so faint it was almost inaudible: “There must be no doubt, my daughter. You are ready. There are secrets that must be safeguarded, and Sheba relies on you.” And in that moment, I felt his life slip away from my grasp, his eyes closing for the final time. My father departed this world, leaving behind a heavy legacy and a burden of responsibility beyond the reach of words.
I stood there, alone, facing the void, carrying the weight of both the past and the present, while the sounds of mourning rituals swirled around me. It was a quiet sorrow, yet it allowed no room for weakness. I could not afford the luxury of grief.
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The funeral of King Al-Haddad was a majestic affair, befitting the Son of the Sun who had ruled Sheba for decades and the last guardian of its ancient secrets. The day dawned with an unusual radiance, as if the sun itself wished to bid farewell to its beloved king. A long procession of soldiers and nobles, clad in white robes symbolizing purity and the sun, marched solemnly behind the golden coffin, which reflected the sunlight in magnificent splendor. The coffin was adorned with symbolic carvings depicting the sun in its various phases, narrating the cycle of life and death, beginnings and endings.
In the grand courtyard of the Temple of the Sun, where the crowd had gathered to witness this solemn moment, the ancient rites of the sun commenced. The priests, clad in golden robes, chanted age-old hymns, their voices echoing as if from the depths of history. Fragrant smoke rose from luxurious censers, filling the air with the scents of myrrh and frankincense, forming a bridge between the realm of the living and the divine. At the zenith of the sky, a large mirror was positioned to reflect the sun’s rays onto the coffin, symbolizing the return of the king’s soul to its original source, the sun they worshiped and revered as the fountain of all life.
Then, with the deep tolling of drums, the priests lifted the coffin high, placing it upon an elevated stone platform. Everyone watched in silent reverence, eyes glistening with tears and contemplation, as the High Priest stood before the assembly, raising his hands to the heavens. In a voice resonant and profound, he proclaimed, “O Son of the Sun, you who bore its light in life and ruled with justice and strength, we return you today to the light. May your departure illuminate our path, and may your spirit guard our kingdom.”
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the priests chanted their final farewell hymns, the sinking sun seeming to carry the king’s spirit into the next world. In that moment, I felt not just the end of an era but the dawn of a new one, with my father’s legacy now entrusted to my care.
The days that followed passed in a blur of intertwined mourning rituals and ceremonial gatherings, as if I were traversing a dream woven from conflicting emotions. My ascension to the throne meant I was no longer merely the daughter of Al-Haddad but the Queen of Sheba, its supreme leader. The gilded throne, adorned with the crown of my ancestors, held no allure of glory for me; it bore only the weight of duty. The gazes of sages and tribal elders followed me, some filled with skepticism, others unable to reconcile themselves to the idea of a woman at the helm of power, even one of Al-Haddad’s lineage.
On the day Khazabela approached me in the throne room, he bowed slightly and whispered, “My Queen, there are whispers circulating in the shadowed corners of the palace. The tribal elders are speaking of old traditions and laws that forbid a woman from ruling alone.” His words struck me like a wave of ice coursing through my veins. This was not merely a political challenge but an attack on the very essence of my identity, on the vision my father had for Sheba—a vision where a woman could lead and command, capable of making the grandest decisions.
A fire ignited within me. How could they question my right when I was the daughter of Al-Haddad? How could they perceive my vulnerability while ignoring my strength? I asked Khazabela sharply, my voice tinged with frozen determination, “What do they propose?”
Khazabela’s face darkened as he replied, “They speak of establishing a council to share power or finding a husband to rule beside you. They move in secrecy, weaving plots to undermine your authority.” Despite the veiled threat in his words, they only steeled my resolve. This was more than a battle for the throne; it was a test of my existence and my ability to endure against all who sought to strip me of my birthright.
That night, I stood on the palace balcony, gazing at the sprawling city I loved and had sworn to protect. The sacred river shimmered in the moonlight, and I felt as though I faced not only the men opposing my rule but also ancient forces stirring in the shadows, striving to drag Sheba back into a bygone era.
I whispered to the enveloping darkness, “Let them scheme and plot as they will. I am Bilqis, daughter of Al-Haddad, Queen of Sheba, and I will show them the true meaning of strength.” Those words were not merely a declaration of defiance but a promise—to myself and to all who believed in me—that I would not surrender. Little did I know that this battle would be the first in a series of challenges that would test every ounce of my determination and will, but I was ready to face them all.
The nights that followed were filled with restless dreams, nightmares and shadows haunting my mind. Yet each morning, I awoke more resolute and determined to protect my father’s legacy and prove to the world that Sheba could stand strong under my leadership, no matter the trials. It was only the beginning, and the beginning of a reign is but the first page of a long history—one written in blood, sacrifice, and courage.