I was astonished when the high priest devised a new rite to seal my ascension: the temple floor was anointed with water mingled with a portion of al‑Haddad's ashes, a sign that his spirit was being poured into me. I watched soldiers empty the mixture into channels beneath the throne, and the priest proclaimed:
"O scion of the sun, child of the royal blood—now the power of the Guardians flows to you, and you are acknowledged the rightful Queen upon the throne of Sheba."
A pale vapor rose, laced with clove and the frankness of myrrh and frankincense. An uncanny tremor kissed my soles, as though the spirit itself shivered in assent at the sun's new heir.
Then was brought the "Sacrifice of Light," an ancient rite revived: a spotless lamb slain at the courtyard's heart, its blood traced in a near‑circle about the throne, signifying that the life surrendered feeds the guarding force. Awe yielded to a bracing confidence; our people heed these symbols with absolute gravity, and if I am born of the fiercest wardens of secret flame, retreat is unthinkable.
I turned to the assembly. The high priest, voice ringing like bronze, declared: "Let the Daughter of the Sun speak and proclaim her covenant." My heart leapt, yet I faced them with my father's own majesty and said:
"O people of Sheba, martyrs of our missing sun—in this hour braided of lament and glory I stand before you, my veins ablaze with al‑Haddad's blood and sorrow, my heart scorched by the fires of farewell as the Son of the Sun departs. Today you behold the grand funeral of the last of the ancient Guardians, drawn in ash mingled with myrrh and frankincense, where sparks of death tremble and hymns of immortality rise.
Know that his blood, returned to its sun today, melts into mine and becomes a mighty ember that cannot fade. Al‑Haddad trained me from childhood to bear the heavy trust—the secrets of Sheba, the light that never sets, the lineage pulsing within me with a resolve unknown to you till now.
People of Sheba—do you still recall how al‑Haddad lived, an unfailing flame? He fought tyranny, he led you with a largesse that never broke. I do not merely stand behind his golden bier; I receive his legacy between my palms like a burning coal. I shall be steward of that light, and I shall beat back injustice with all the strength and sovereignty I possess. So long as our sun reigns above Sheba's sky, our right to rise will not be quenched—the right to rebuild yesterday's glory and kindle tomorrow's dream."
At those words a chorus rose—some voices fervent, some cold, some cautious. Yet I understood that my seat upon this gold‑forged throne, etched with sigils since the age of my forebears, was the starting‑point of a restless era: an age awaiting the convergence of the sun's decree with the power of a queen who will confront every trial with unbending will.
Thus my enthronement was consummated in the mingled scents of death and rebirth: the funeral of King al‑Haddad lamented by generations, and the coronation of the Daughter of the Sun blazing toward the future. Beneath the sun poised at the zenith I felt that we had entered an unparalleled epoch—where grief and exultation meet upon palace thresholds once ruled by a single man, and now unfurl a road of light from which there is no return. Al‑Haddad was the last to guard those mysteries; I have swallowed the inheritance.
A hush of muted applause—threaded with hymns of the sun—murmured through the hall, and I smiled inwardly: I knew vast struggles awaited me. I, the "Daughter of the Sun," stood between hearts that cheered and hearts that concealed distrust. Yet I swore I would not betray my father's charge, nor bend to those who deem women foes to the throne. The sun rises and shows no partiality, and so shall its monarch. Inwardly I vowed, Father, I have come to restore what you safeguarded, and I will pay any price to fashion Sheba into a realm of solar grandeur and might.
Thus the rites ended, drenched in wonders and surprises: we passed from the shadow of a funeral into the brilliance of a crown, from tears of farewell into the challenge ahead. Now the elders had ceased to care that I was a woman; the ceremonies behind me proclaimed royal worthiness, and the land was mine the moment I bound it to a sun that shines on all. One task remained: to draw every breast beneath my steady gaze and declare, with a tremor of awe and certainty within, I am Belqīs, Queen of Sheba.
Night pressed upon the palace like a cloak heavy with secrets, its fringes embroidered with intrigues woven in dim corners. Torch‑light in the throne‑hall could not banish the shadows of doubt that had gathered with my father's passing. I sat upon the gilded seat, my eyes fixed on the void, pondering what must come. The sting of his death and the weight of his legacy still burned; amid that mute collapse only one man shaped words with deft precision: Grand Counsellor Khazabala.
He entered with quiet steps, each one measuring with composure the space between power and vacancy. I lifted my gaze and found an undying glimmer in his eyes—not grief alone, but a shrewdness that never yields. He bowed slightly, a gesture laden with loyal caution, then spoke in a voice as cool as dawn's first breath.
"My queen, the corridors teem with whispers, and in distant courtyards the shadows of men convene—men filled only with doubt. Yet you, Daughter of al‑Haddad, are the sun whose light some would blot out."
I weighed his words in silence, then answered softly, "So you have heard the talk: a council of rule, perhaps even a man to share my throne… They do not know me, nor the measure of al‑Haddad's blood in my veins."
Khazabala lifted his left brow—his signal for casting a pebble into the pool of my reflection. "O Daughter of the Sun, were their objection to a woman's rule a mere trifle, we might quell it with a royal decree and the blades of the Guard. The true question is—why now? Why rouse ancient taboos long dormant beneath the ashes of ages? Might an unseen hand be plucking these strings?"
I met his look with puzzled eyes. "What do you imply, Khazabala? Do you think the matter is more than dusty custom? Is there someone seeking to shake my throne, though I have sat upon it but a few days?"
He advanced a single step, his voice sliding to my ear like taut silk. "Why, my queen? Why choose this moment, so soon after al‑Haddad's departure? Does not the loss of the old symbol invite the birth of a new one—or the crushing of the symbol before it can take root? Who profits from weakening you at the outset?"
His question burrowed deep; I felt the weight of thought descend. Who benefits? For centuries Sheba dwelt beneath fixed traditions, but my father's strength had silenced those voices. Now, with him gone, they stir anew. "They search for a chink to strike," I said. "Yet you know I will not yield."
Khazabala's smile was faint, replying to a question I had not voiced. "Strength alone does not conquer suspicion. Show too much steel and they will think you a façade masking a hollow court; show too much softness and they will brand you weak. Do you see the dilemma, my queen? Force may feed their fear of you, gentleness may whet their appetites. How do we draw them from shadow to sunlight without granting them an opening to attack?"
A crease furrowed my brow; the grip upon my heart tightened. "What do you propose, Khazabala?"
The Grand Counsellor set a subtle snare, as was his wont. Hand upon beard he mused, "If I asked you to discern their logic, here lies the first test. They veil themselves behind an ancient ban on solitary queenship. What these men seek is not merely a council nor a husband for you, but the seizure of initiative: they mean to fix you in a ring of reaction, not action. The question is—how do we compel them to reveal their true intent?"
His eyes told me he possessed the answer yet waited upon my wit. I said, "Perhaps if I summon the tribal elders to the temple square and display honest readiness to hear their counsel, I will create a moment that forces them to bare their hearts. Should they wish to topple me, their demands will stand in the open; if they remain vague, the public will see a queen pursuing concord while they hide from the light."
Khazabala clapped softly, admiration glinting in his gaze. "Excellent, my queen. With that stroke we unmask the ambitious without relinquishing the initiative. But there is…another dilemma."
I sighed with caution. "Another?"
"Suppose they meet you before the multitude and present their petitions coated in honeyed words, professing concern for the realm. What then? You will be caught between two fires: reject their demands outright and appear obstinate; accept them as framed and they slip into the engines of power. Which path will you tread?"
I grasped Khazabala's intent, and a fresh weight pressed upon my breast. "I must offer a vision stronger than theirs," I said, "a design that shows all that a woman's reign is no frailty, but a renewal restoring Sheba's glory and hardening her sinew. I shall remind them of my father's legacy and of his blood that courses in my veins; the sun distinguishes neither man nor woman when it rises, but pours its light upon every face. Perhaps I shall grant them a defined place within a council of counsel—no power to rule, but a seat to advise—so my initiative will seem unifying while their plot appears divisive."
Khazabala smiled, this time with warmer grace. "Such is true statesmanship, my queen. Let them feel secure in their new role as counsellors, not sovereigns. Fear not to listen—wisdom belongs not to the one who speaks the most, but to the one who steers the dialogue to her advantage. You are al‑Haddad's daughter; they forget that. I, however, shall not."
I lapsed into silence for a minute, my mind weaving the paths ahead. I knew the road would be arduous, that this was only the first step upon a long way strewn with trials. Yet Khazabala's keen intellect lent me added confidence: he did not hand me ready‑made solutions—he taught me how to forge them myself. I lifted my gaze to the moonlight spilling through the lattice and murmured inwardly, Let the conspiracies come as they will; night, however long, is but the herald of a new dawn.
Khazabala bowed lightly in farewell, leaving behind the echo of his glittering questions and bequeathing me an iron resolve. Today I learned that the house of power holds corridors needing the lantern of thought, not the blade alone. This is my game, and the hour has come to prove to those lurking in shadow that the sun within my blood shall never fade, and that the Daughter of al‑Haddad is no puppet tottering upon history's stage, but a sovereign who grasps every thread with a hand of iron and a heart of light.