One last glance in this hallowed place; emptied of life. Neith tries to imagine the decor, the pale smoke of resins, colorful murals, the scents of wild goose, berrywine and lotus-flower gusting up from store-rooms. How irrelevant it all seems now. Re’s great sight had opened up a fissure of molten fire above their pinnacle; Satriya, the very palace which a month earlier had leapt out with promises of instant affinity. Now it is difficult to imagine it ever raining again. Their waters recede, their earth cracks, the seeds in the orchard so preciously cultivated by Pharaoh himself begin to dry.

“Re wishes to purify our temple,” out into the opened air she rushes to take in his glance, to nurture from his cheeks the restrained rage. The heat and light they’d grown up with and known every month of their lives is suddenly turning on them. She feels it as a blade to the belly, nodding her chin swiftly while blinking back tears. But Neith’s restless heels are eager to test the hot limestone paths which lead from Satriya, every stride at the will of Khaemwaset’s direction—

For stark images of Den and Satakhetem present themselves so clearly whenever she closes her eyes.

Outside, they gather. Satriya’s numbers had grown and dissipated in as many days, four among them now bearing their heads beneath Re’s sear. The serpentine priestess approaches Pharaoh, her ice-fire eyes summarily urgent. She speaks with wisdom gathered beyond their years and nome.

“What is the nature of these runes, hemet?” Neith asks from her bother’s side, paws steeling over the earth’s unbearable scald. Her gaze inevitably turns for the boy— silent and glinting along the fringes of the group. Rays of sun distort his figure but even she can see the marr of bald flesh that will certainly burn after a moment’s exposure.

“Hrd,” ( Child) she summons him, voice sharp but eyes gentle. “You will walk beside me.”