Satakhetem stood motionless in the center of her new “quarters,” obsidian eyes slowly sweeping over the space. It was lavish by most standards — large, airy, and clearly prepared for royalty — yet it still felt like a gilded cage. Guards posted outside. A polite reprimand disguised as hospitality.

How quaint.

At least they had obeyed her commands.

The walls had been freshly painted a deep, rich indigo, streaked and mottled with crushed berry stains to mimic the bruised hues of dusk. The effect was striking — dark, regal, and appropriately celestial. Fresh green palm fronds lined the floor, releasing a clean, sharp scent with every step.

In one corner stood a wide obsidian plinth, polished to a mirror sheen, draped with thick, luxurious black furs. A matching obsidian shelf had been installed along the far wall.

And best of all — the offensive twin sun motifs that had been carved and painted throughout Satriya had been removed from her chambers. In their place, Kwetau the Artist was already at work etching and painting her Triple Sun: three golden disks interlocked in perfect unity. The symbol of Toula’s true will. The symbol of balance.

Satakhetem moved silently across the palm fronds and lowered herself onto the obsidian plinth, her long limbs folding with predatory grace. The black furs were sumptuous against her pewter-and-gold coat, yet she found no comfort in them.

She sat rigid and tall, tail curled neatly around her paws, staring at the half-finished Triple Sun on the wall.

'They think they punish me,' she thought. 'They give me silken chains and call it hospitality... while daring to turn their backs on the very restoration of Ma’at.' A faint, bitter curl touched the corner of her mouth.

Khaemwaset’s face — her face — still burned behind her eyes. The way he had dismissed her. The way he had chosen incompleteness over their divine unity.
She reached out and ran a claw slowly across the dark, gleaming surface of the obsidian plinth, leaving a thin, pale scratch.
'Let them post their guards. Let them whisper that I am troublesome.' Her sapphire eyes gleamed with cold certainty.

'Every day I remain here, every brushstroke Kwetau places upon that wall, plants another seed. They cannot hide me forever. The longer they resist, the more obvious the Isfet becomes.'

Satakhetem lifted her head, staring at the emerging Triple Sun with possessive satisfaction.

She was no prisoner.

She was simply waiting — as a goddess should — for the world to remember its proper order.

“Take a break, painter.”
Jodai’s entrance was unceremonious, a presence cleaving through the chamber to eye the have-draft mural before taking in the coolness of lapis lazuli.
“What were you hoping to accomplish by that, amiirad?” A title meant to sting.
She had succeeded beyond measure in but one endeavor: estranging every denizen of satriya from lowliest peasant to pharaoh and royal wife alike.