There are steps in the halls of the barracks. Heavy; foreign to her ears.
She had been asleep just before an evening shift when she'd taken notice. Peering from her bedchamber and into the sandstone passage, she sees him. A new arrival to the red sands — there were many, as of late. This one, she guessed, was here to seek the Queen's hand.
But if so, what was he doing here? Why would he bother with the mazoi?
She chuffs in greeting, slithering out from her post and into the open, a bedfur slung over her shoulders.

Interesting.
I am mazoi, she then confirms with a prideful jut of her chest. He stands before one of the warriors that which he seeks; but what did he want? Was he simply curious, or was there more to this?
Zaahira's gaze shifts. Attentive; prying. May I assist you?

Kings, heirs, homeland; nonsense to the aspwoman. She cared not for anyone of any political prowess that was not her Queen. She feigns interest with a slow nod.
Additionally, he speaks to her as if she is stupid. Another point against him in her weathered mental notebook.
Instead, she sheds her bedfur before stepping fully into the hall. Come, she directs; not an order, but not a question either. She saunters past him, a sway to her hips. I will show you training grounds. Perhaps you would like to observe, or take part in a spar. Some other mazoi may be there now.

These days, Zaahira spoke of Akashingo as if she had always been there. With the smooth, high-shouldered strut she carries herself in, she offered no indication of anything but regality. A hint of a smile is cast over her shoulder as she rounds a corner. You will find that us mazoi are very dutiful. Worthy opponents, preening, searching. I aspire for yaret. Eventually, jodai, should the Queen find me deserving. Head of mazoi. because their former one had not exactly worked out, had he?

Perhaps he is buttering her up, or perhaps he is merely being courteous. That is up to her and our erpa-ha. The one who, if Khusobek was right, may or may not hold the throne in the not-so distant future.
Senmut as pharaoh. She could not make much sense of the thought.
I would gladly kill for her just as I would die for her. and she meant it, she meant it; she gives him a passing, unreadable glance that said perhaps he was not spared from such a notion.
The redstone corridors are long and tedious, though Zaahira had spent an entire summer memorizing them, assimilating. She leads him expertly to the training grounds and finds that they are empty, save for a fellahin that sits along the wall.
Her lips curl. I will go easy on you.

He does not seek an easy fight. She could only hope he hadn't expected one.
Coming to a stance not unlike the one she had taken with Naberius, knees bent, paws firmly planted upon the dusty clay beneath, she waits. Her gaze searches him already for what would be her first target; a hunger, left unsated.
But above all, she would allow him the first move.

How typical, she thought; where Naberius had been methodical and quick, a dancer as opposed to an iron fist, this one sought power.
And she was not about to give it to him.
He aims for her ankle with a hurtle forwards, and she narrowly dodges with a swift duck and a dart off to his side like a mouse scrambling from a cat's claws. A snarl ripples from her chest. Too close!
This called for a more wild tactic. This called for teeth.
Her jaws fiercely snap for his neck and shoulders as her own lunge is made, springing on her hind legs to place nimble forelegs upon his back, an effort to bring him to the ground. Outwardly haphazard, but her eyes burn with knowing.

He succumbs rather easily. Too easily. Before she even had time to react, a blow is thrust upon her ribcage with a sturdy paw! With no choice but to draw back from teeth that snap towards her, she changes her tactic yet again — she is the one who now snaps at his heels. Get up!
For now, she sought to bewilder and exhaust; to chase.

But she does not. Not yet.
Instead, once she's certain he's on solid ground, she aims to shove him forth — to get him to run. Jumping, again, this time not lingering, but ambushing. A brazen show of teeth is given; nape flared, tail flagged high above her haunches.
Only then would she seek to land another blow; this time, right for his face. If she were to miss, she would allow him to slip from her grasp; if she were to gain purchase, she would offer him a worthy memento in the form of a slim cut to his temple.

A proud one, he is. He will not humor her by giving into the chase.
As if a switch had been flipped, Zaahira comes to an abrupt stop. Her breaths grow shallow as she parts her lips, drawing through her mouth in an attempt to catch them. What fun is that? she nearly snorts, giving a quizzical lift of her brow. A sense of annoyance washes over her now — who was he to boss her around in the midst of a spar?
Alright, she readies herself once more. you get one more chance to impress me. Allah Yakhthek.

This had gotten much more serious than she had anticipated.
Wide-open jaws with jagged teeth seek her throat. A wretched snarl rips from high in her nostrils, and instinctively, she jabs two forepaws at his open chest in the hopes of stopping him; her claws aiming to rake at the skin beneath the feathersoft fur.
She stares, pinpricked, as the realization dawns upon her. He has size and sheer muscle to his advantage, and she her wit and speed; but there is one crucial thing that sets them apart: he is a man. 
If he wished to cause her true harm, and if her ability to react quickly failed her, she would be powerless. No amount of vigorous training among the great halls of Akashingo nor prayer to the most Holy of Gods would save her, for this was biology, and she is but a girl to his hungry eyes. To him, she is weak. And that infuriates her.
Her chest heaves as her composure is forced into being rekindled. Focus. Her own jaws snap once, twice, thrice; anywhere, hind legs tucked to her stomach in an effort to keep the space between them.

This was not a spar. At some point, it had become something worse, although if Zaahira were honest, she didn't quite know when or why.
She had given up on offense and had begun to focus solely on keeping herself above water, and as those yellowed teeth tore and punctured and claws from both man and woman scraped at skin angrily, she saw in his eyes something formidable. Something that very well could have killed her.
This was not a good-natured practice of strategy. This was a flaunt of power. And perhaps part of her mercenary training should be accepting when you are in over your head; when you lose.
When she was finally released, she wanted to ask if he was happy, if he had proven something to himself; if wounding one of the Queen's mazoi bolstered his ego, if he would later return to his chambers and fantasize about this over wine.
But she does not. Because this was not worth it. He was not worth it. He, as she decides while crudely spitting a droplet of crimson from her mouth, was not worthy of her Queen's hand. And if he were to marry her, she would throw a metaphorical shoe at the altar.
She says nothing. With her last remaining shred of dignity, she picks herself up and trudges in the direction of the wellspring.