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She walked with a light step—though she had never been burdened by heaviness—for she was happy. Zealous as ever, attuned to the murmurs of the gods she alone seemed to hear, ever sensitive to the signs they left in their wake, Asra could only be elated by the latest divine manifestation of almighty Râ: a sun so fierce in its brilliance that even his people could scarcely endure it.

The witch, the hemet, had not been present when Pharaoh himself commanded his people to abandon the burning dunes beneath the spear that pierced the sky. What would she have thought of it? A Pharaoh turning his back on his divine father? A wise choice in the face of a scourge that in any case spelled death for the followers of Satriya? Who could say.

The Scorpion—mad witch, one-eyed herald of the gods—had nonetheless felt Râ’s divine summons, a siren’s song, a dark melody laced with fire. And though part of her yearned to return, to bask once more in the blessing of almighty Râ, some quiet thread of selfishness, a whisper of heresy, had persuaded her that perhaps, in the end, no god was worthy of her life...

Then came the scent of Satriya’s caravan, pulling her in—those mystical traces of jasmine intertwined with the myrrh of divine Queen Merneith. There were other fragrances, to be sure, but to Asra, those remained without a face.

So she had followed. She had walked. All the way to Dawn’s Cuesta—a place that stirred only revulsion in her, her nose wrinkling at the foul stench of such a land. Towering, arrogant trees that seemed to reach only in vain to rival the glory of the sun god.

Where Râ does not see… the city of shadow, she had murmured to herself, laughter lingering on her lips. So this was where they had come?