3/10/2026, 3:44 AM
It has been a full day.
As the rays of Ra's light dwindle to the sharpest line of gold upon the horizon, Aiesha watches it with a new sense of pragmatism. Where before she might have held wonder, or awe—even a childish yearning to understand all that her father once preached—now she is... unsure. Reluctant would be a good word for it. Antagonized by yet another massive shift in her world, her world view journeys with her.
What doesn't change is her need to pace. Even though exhaustion weighs her every movement. She cannot let herself rest properly—this is not home, no matter how closely it resembled the Akashingo that she knew. The girl could not sit still, and neither could she roam too far—not like the Oasis, where she'd had a taste of real freedom. She could neither leave this place which had so welcomed her, explore it at length (in part because of the late hour, but also... she was a stranger here, that would look poorly upon Aiesha as well as her father), nor surrender to the quiet luxury of the chambers offered.
The palace walls—golden stone, echoing the mesas of her birth—pressed in like a promise she had not asked to keep. Satriya's halls breathed with the same incense-heavy air, the same murmur of priestly chants drifting from distant altars, yet every corner reminded her: her father, once high priest and now something humbler (advisor? honored guest?), walked these corridors with the quiet piety that had always defined him. Aiesha had no such anchor.
She turned on her heel again. The sun's last sliver vanished, plunging the stone-hewn arena into twilight blue. Somewhere nearby, a servant's footsteps paused—watching, perhaps, or waiting to offer water she would refuse. She did not stop.
Instead she lifted her muzzle to the emerging stars, searching for the familiar constellations her mother had once named in whispers. A soft sound escaped her—half sigh, half growl. She paced once more, tighter this time, circling a patch of water which could have been built by the servants, she would not know for sure. Her mind wandered to the vague story of a wellspring; whoever had told her about it, they were not here now.
The surface trembled beneath a gust of wind, indifferent.
As the rays of Ra's light dwindle to the sharpest line of gold upon the horizon, Aiesha watches it with a new sense of pragmatism. Where before she might have held wonder, or awe—even a childish yearning to understand all that her father once preached—now she is... unsure. Reluctant would be a good word for it. Antagonized by yet another massive shift in her world, her world view journeys with her.
What doesn't change is her need to pace. Even though exhaustion weighs her every movement. She cannot let herself rest properly—this is not home, no matter how closely it resembled the Akashingo that she knew. The girl could not sit still, and neither could she roam too far—not like the Oasis, where she'd had a taste of real freedom. She could neither leave this place which had so welcomed her, explore it at length (in part because of the late hour, but also... she was a stranger here, that would look poorly upon Aiesha as well as her father), nor surrender to the quiet luxury of the chambers offered.
The palace walls—golden stone, echoing the mesas of her birth—pressed in like a promise she had not asked to keep. Satriya's halls breathed with the same incense-heavy air, the same murmur of priestly chants drifting from distant altars, yet every corner reminded her: her father, once high priest and now something humbler (advisor? honored guest?), walked these corridors with the quiet piety that had always defined him. Aiesha had no such anchor.
She turned on her heel again. The sun's last sliver vanished, plunging the stone-hewn arena into twilight blue. Somewhere nearby, a servant's footsteps paused—watching, perhaps, or waiting to offer water she would refuse. She did not stop.
Instead she lifted her muzzle to the emerging stars, searching for the familiar constellations her mother had once named in whispers. A soft sound escaped her—half sigh, half growl. She paced once more, tighter this time, circling a patch of water which could have been built by the servants, she would not know for sure. Her mind wandered to the vague story of a wellspring; whoever had told her about it, they were not here now.
The surface trembled beneath a gust of wind, indifferent.