Lion Head Mesa sackcloth

The misthofóros let his eyes settle on the tightening in her jaw. Arsenio did not shift, but his lips curled smugly. Something dwelled beneath the fall-leaf color of her cloak. The maid had not forgotten her home, her origins, and she carried that with her like a storm under her surface.

When the woman went on to say that she was a gift, a present from Pharaoh to the lady Satsu, Arsenio leaned toward her intently. The smile fell from his lips. Ice blue chipped away at her, he gazed so intensely upon her features that he thought it might allow him to pry her open and spill her secrets on the cavern floors.

What does it mean to be a gift? What is your purpose?