making so many assumptions pls call me out if i am wrong

Zaahira was not an an intruder. She kept to herself in these winding redstone halls, privacy considered a sacred thing that should be cradled and kept like a soft-skinned baby.
After all, Akashingo was the only place she had ever had such a luxury. In the Lake, Khaba was everywhere. He had eyes within the hills, within the water, deep in the branches of trees. His embrace was strong.
Today, glistening with the arid heat of midsommar afternoon from a recent training session, the mazoi walks the halls of the priests and priestesses. They are beautifully decorated, in some ways in better shape than the mazoi barracks. She seeks Akhtar, or anyone, really; whoever can give her advice.
For today, she will work on her altar for Sekhmet. That is the way Aliki will be brought to justice, it seems.
A golden-laced silhouette catches her eye, a figure within a room splattered in paint of blues and yellows. Curiously, against her better judgment, she peers inside with a point of her nose. Excuse me? a gentle call for the sleeping woman. I am sorry to bother. You are hemet?

Ah, yes, Zaahira lowers her head into a polite bow of greeting. I am Zaahira. Mazoi. I seek guidance with the Gods, she shuffles further into the doorway, shoulder pressed against the redstone wall. I am building an altar for goddess Sekhmet. Do you know what offerings she would like?
This woman is young; still with fresh eyes and a lanky figure. Perhaps it was unwise to be seeking guidance from someone so presumably inexperienced, but no matter — if she spoke to the Gods, her advice was good enough for the aspwoman. I was hoping you could walk with me to the river. I will be placing it there.

Roses. Something burnt. Zaahira listens with a quick nod of her head. Teeth from a kill, she thinks aloud with flared nostrils and wildfire eyes that study the priestess. perhaps even a pelt?
The curve of her back, the feathering along her cheeks that lead to a gold-dusted chin.
No. She swallows the craving that bubbles deep in her stomach.
Come. I will show you where it is being built. and quietly, she slips from the doorway with a hushed gasp for air in the hopes that she would not have heard it.

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Erpa-ha has told me to look to Sekhmet for guidance, Zaahira explains, breath drawn sharply inward. Aliki. Khaba. so that is what I will do.
A trip to the stores, first; down the halls and past the winding shadow of the catacombs. There, she seeks her supplies; the tooth of a deer, a dried scarlet rose, the pelt of a hare.
Daybreak warms her shoulders as she leads the hemet to Selena's grave; eternally beside the rushing serpent. Beside it lies a second, smaller pile of silt and clay, shaped crudely in the form of a pillar. Here.
Together, they will display them; Zaahira guides the golden wrist, her choice of gifts lined along the base of the pillar. They join voices, then, in prayer.

Mine is a heart of carnelian, crimson as murder on a holy day.
Mine is a heart of corneal, the gnarled roots of a dogwood and the bursting of flowers.
I am the broken wax seal on my lover’s letters.
I am the phoenix, the fiery sun, consuming and resuming myself.
I pace the halls of the Duat.
I knock on the doors of death.
I wander into the fields to stare at the sun and lie in the grass, ripe as a fig.
The souls of the gods are with me.
They hum like flies in my ears.
I will what I will.
Mine is a heart of carnelian, blood red as the crest of a phoenix.

Shaking, renewed, Zaahira allows Melody to depart with a soft whisper of thank you. She stares at the shadowed grave for a time, and thinks of how much time has already passed.