Night revives Neith from the oppressive scorch of day, the lengthy desert journey having left her chaste paws lanced and red. She navigates the copse with careful consideration but bears the pain as a trial from Set. Her flesh would harden and thicken and she would no longer be a fragile palace girl but a queen who walks the land beside her people. Even in her tender months the amiirad was moved by such ideas. Despite Khaem’s guilt, she could not truly mourn their erstwhile kingdom when the prospect of their own forays lay ahead.

Over a small stream she sips and investigates her wounds, dipping the soles two-at-a-time to be cleansed in coolness. Little is detected beyond the brook’s gentle trickle, but a near scent draws her eyes to the boughs ahead.

“Hello,” she greets in egyptian, without sight and not needing it, for somehow the stranger’s essence is known to her.