the dawn hung low, pale and veiled, stretching light across the sandstone ridges of cuesta like a blessing whispered rather than sung. ankhefenmut moved through it, the clink of his carnelian-stone torque muffled beneath linen skin wraps, his eyes sharp and lined with vigilance.
the lower quarter stirred. tents of rush-plaited reed and folded hides had risen overnight like flowering things in the dust. children’s laughter buzzed soft and bright, small proof that life endured, even in exile.
he passed them quietly, offering nods, sometimes a brief touch to shoulder or snout. but it was the scribes he sought— those who bore charcoal ink-stained paws and palm leaves.
have the records been counted? he asked, not wavering for even a moment beneath Re's gaze.
the elder among them nodded, a flick of his tail marking completion.
ankhefenmut turned, gaze sweeping the narrow path that coiled up toward the queen’s quarter.