Re hears you, my pharaoh, ankhefenmut spoke— not to quiet khaemwaset's pain, but to anchor it. his voice rang through the antechambers of satriya, through pillars yet uncarved, through temples not yet risen. he had seen omens in the fire, had smelled the ash before it was born. and still, it ached. still, it burned.
he turned from his sovereign, his steps quick and sure despite the dry cracking of earth beneath them. his limbs bore the dust of dedication. his chest bore the weight of duty.
gather! his voice boomed like thunder cast in bronze. gather, all who walk in the light of Re!
maidens with henna-stained wrists turned their heads. warriors— his mazoi, sons of sword and silence— straightened, sharp as spearpoints. ankhefenmut moved among them, a shadow wrapped in sun.
we move not in fear, but in faith, he said, eyes catching the blaze of the departing light. the gods cleanse with fire— but they do not forget what they anoint. satriya is not lost. it is becoming.
he found their faces in the smoke, in the shimmer of haze. he touched their shoulders. he called them not as soldiers but as chosen.
the pharaoh has seen. the queen has known. now we follow.