Satakhetem moved through the press of tropical green with her usual measured prowl, the blue-black trifecta paint across her shoulders catching what little light filtered through the canopy. She had already sampled the spiced meat and accepted a second drink without apology—though the liquid on her tongue was stranger than she expected. Sweet, then sharp, then something almost floral that did not belong in any cup she remembered from Akashingo.

She could not yet decide if she liked it.

Around her the night pulsed with laughter, lantern-sway, and the quickening of distant drums. Snippets of foreign gossip drifted past on the warm air: a name she did not know spoken with reverence, another with thinly veiled contempt, a third followed by nervous laughter that cut off too quickly. Her sapphire eyes tracked the speakers for a moment, then moved on, half-interested, half-dismissive.

She was in no rush. Some faces earned a lingering look; others she passed over as if they were already gone. The currents of power here were different from the ones she knew—thicker, wetter, less precise—but they were still currents, and she had always been good at reading the way water moved around stone.

The gods, she suspected, were still watching.