The Pharaoh’s Favorite novel Chapter 52

Nebetta had been murdered in the dead of night.

Not a poison. Not an accident. Not some quiet, untraceable death.

No, she had been butchered.

Whoever had killed her had stabbed her again and again, long after the first blow would have sufficed. It was rage that had guided the blade.

And yet—despite the sheer brutality of the attack, the murderer had vanished like a shadow, leaving nothing behind.

Grief burned within me, sharp and bitter, digging its nails into my ribs, twisting itself into something sharper.

I had not known Nebetta as well as I should have, but she had been kind.

She had been the only one who did not look at me with resentment. The only one who had spoken to me without cruelty or veiled intentions.

I had not forgotten that Nebetta had tried to warn me. I had not forgotten that she had feared for my safety. And now—she was dead.

Yet Heket and Meritaten wasted no time turning her death into a spectacle.

They slithered through the palace like serpents, their words dripping venom into the ears of nobles, priests, and courtiers alike. And they knew exactly where to direct their whispers.

“All these troubles began when Neferet joined the harem. That cannot be a coincidence.”

“She has yet to undergo the first ritual of divine confirmation.”

“How can Pharaoh be so certain of her favor when even the gods have not spoken?”

It was clever. Insidious.

Because while Amen’s belief in me was unwavering, it would mean nothing if the rest of the court began to doubt. Without the blessing of Isis formally revealed before the priests, I was nothing more than a mortal woman in Pharaoh’s favor.

And if I was merely mortal—if I was not truly chosen—then what else might I be hiding?

It was a slow-dripping poison. And the worst part? It actually worked.

Even those who had once remained neutral now regarded me with wary eyes, uncertainty creeping into their expressions. Doubt was a powerful weapon, and Heket and Meritaten wielded it with practiced ease.

But I would not be made a villain in this.

While they played their little games, I stepped forward to assist with Nebetta’s embalming and funeral rites—a true act of mourning, of respect.

I bathed her cold body in sacred oils, murmured prayers to the gods to guide her soul safely to Duat. My hands did not tremble as I worked, though my heart was heavy.

But even this they turned against me.

“Why would she involve herself in the embalming? Does she wish to hide something?”

“Perhaps she wanted to ensure no evidence remained.”

It was laughable. But I did not laugh.

I only listened. Through Werel, I gathered every whisper, every lie, every carefully placed seed of doubt.

But I did not retaliate. Not yet.

“Do nothing,” I told Werel. “Just listen. And report back to me.”

Let them talk. Let them stare. Their opinions were nothing to me.

The only thing that mattered was finding out who had truly done this.

Days passed. To restore some semblance of order, a new unit of guards was assigned to the Golden House.

Their presence was meant to reassure us, but I knew better. This was not about safety. It was about control.

The harem was assigned a new captain. A man with one good eye and a scar down his jaw—a soldier forced into retirement after a battle left him half-blind, they said.

When he stepped forward to introduce himself, my world stilled.

Sahety.