It began with whispers.
In the palace corridors where slaves and servants trod barefoot, where shadows stretched longer than the light, the silence of mourning gave way to tension. No one said it, but all felt it: the bloodline was splintered. Prince Userkaf, the first son, had returned to Thebes to bury his father and claim the throne, yet the crown did not fall easily into any man's hand. And so, in hushed corners and candlelit halls, the Pharaoh's sons began to conspire—not against enemies foreign or divine, but against each other.
Prince Djedhor was the first to make his move.
He had gathered support quickly after the funeral rites—his power base rooted in the merchant elite and mid-ranking officers who saw in him not virtue but opportunity. The young, the ambitious, and the disillusioned latched onto his promise of gold, titles, and unbridled access to power. His spies moved through taverns, temples, and even palace kitchens. He fed his soldiers meat and wine, preached security and strength, and whispered venom against his brothers.
But Djedhor was not a man made for patience.
In his inner court, a conspiracy blossomed. He began to forge decrees in the dead Pharaoh's name, tested his authority over regional governors, and even had the likeness of Userkaf removed from murals in the Hall of Scrolls. When the Vizier summoned him to counsel, Djedhor responded with silence. His claim, he believed, would be ratified by blood—not parchment.
So he struck first.
It was meant to be a small blow: a forged letter, sent under Userkaf's name, instructing guards in the Temple of Ptah to detain Meri, the youngest brother, on suspicion of heresy. The trap was simple. The letter would be intercepted. Meri would retaliate against Userkaf. The eldest and youngest would burn each other while Djedhor stood untouched.
But the plan unraveled.
A young scribe, loyal to Userkaf, deciphered the deceit and delivered the truth to his lord. Enraged, Userkaf did not strike back immediately. He let the city learn first—through whispers, scrolls, and rumor—that Djedhor had falsified the words of a Pharaoh's son.
Then, in a calculated blow, Userkaf demanded a trial.
Djedhor refused. Instead, he barricaded himself in the lower palaces, rallied his house guard, and accused his brothers of plotting against him. "I alone," he shouted to his followers, "have the will to rule. I alone shall be Pharaoh."
The court splintered. Fights broke out in the streets. Blood spilled on the steps of the Temple of Thoth.
That night, as chaos rippled through Thebes, Djedhor died.
His body was found in his own private bath. The water, black with blood, still steamed. His skin had been flayed in strips from shoulders to knees, and his tongue had been cut out and placed in his open palm. No killer was found. No witness saw the deed. Some said it was divine punishment; others whispered of old assassins awakened in the city's darkest hours. But no truth surfaced. Only his corpse.
Mourning did not last.
With Djedhor dead, the youngest brother, Prince Meri, rose in popularity. His connection to the high priesthood and his pious demeanor made him a palatable alternative for many. He did not rally armies or promise gold. He promised peace, purity, and the favor of the gods.
And Thebes, weary from blood, listened.
Meri made overtures to the temples. He walked barefoot through the necropolis in prayer. He ordered a public cleansing ritual for his brother's death. And though he wept before the city, he privately declared that Djedhor's death was righteous. "A man who lies in the names of gods," he said to the Council of Temples, "shall not die quietly."
Still, his hands were not clean.
Meri's followers—robed acolytes and temple guards—began to root out those who opposed him. Quiet arrests followed. Scrolls disappeared. Accusers were silenced. The court's scribes, wary of disappearing in the night, began to use code in their letters. The palace no longer echoed with debate but with the hush of the fearful.
Yet Prince Meri, for all his devotion, had little understanding of the world beyond temples.
One of his closest advisors, a man named Heqanakht, grew greedy. He began accepting bribes for priestly favors, licensing temple land to merchants with blood ties to Djedhor. When a rival priest discovered the corruption and attempted to speak against it, he was found burned alive in the inner courtyard.
The scandal spread.
One night, two of Meri's temple guards vanished. Their bodies were later found in the Nile, their chests carved with symbols of disgrace. The public turned. Peace had soured. Rumors began to swirl—whispers that Meri was cursed, that his gods had abandoned him, that he was next.
He tried to retreat into piety. He fasted. He prostrated. He wept in the Holy Sanctuary of Amun.
It did not save him.
His death came during the Festival of the New Moon. As he knelt before the altar, a sudden fire burst through the inner temple. In the panic, a figure cloaked in ash-colored linen appeared behind Meri. When the fire was extinguished, Meri's charred body was found impaled on one of the temple's golden scepters. His entrails had been removed and coiled around the altar's base.
No one claimed responsibility. The temple denied any knowledge. Priests blamed demons. But Thebes knew better. The game of thrones had become a game of death.
All eyes turned now to Userkaf.
The eldest son remained. His army of veterans held the southern gates. His allies in the Council grew bolder. And the people—starved for stability—began to chant his name in the markets.
Yet Userkaf was not without enemies.
Even as he rose, rival nobles plotted. House Senebtisi, who had once sworn to Djedhor, allied secretly with northern merchant clans. They began raising coin to bribe mercenaries. A small revolt flared near the granaries, where dissenters burned the sigil of Userkaf and shouted the name of a long-dead uncle as the "true heir."
Userkaf responded with fire.
He marched on the granary district with his house guard and burned it to the ground. "Let the flames be my answer," he declared. "I have buried my father. I have buried my brothers. I shall not bury my birthright."
But fate, too, had sharpened its knife.
As the city slowly settled, and it seemed no other contenders remained, Userkaf received word of a gathering near the western cliffs—an old tomb, re-opened, where men were seen hauling stones and weapons.
Suspicious, he rode out in the dead of night with only a dozen guards.
He never returned.
At dawn, a shepherd found his body in the sand. His eyes had been gouged, his throat opened from ear to ear, and his body stripped naked and nailed to the cliff with bronze spikes. In his mouth, someone had placed a crown—carved from dung and bone.
The people wailed. The court panicked. The line of Neferhotep was gone.
Thebes fell into stunned silence.
No killer was found. No note left. No claim staked.
Only the Vizier, Amenmose, remained as the last hand of the old king. In the wake of the carnage, he offered no speeches, no decrees, no heirs. He sealed the palace gates and summoned no council.