Luneshale Pass arrival

Not a soul is untempted by her pull. She is decorated. Her life is a public domain. She belongs to the arms that reach for her, the kneeling heads and tears upon cheeks, the murmurs of grateful prayer on tongues, the mazoi who take up arms at her side and the fellahin who fuss over her presentation. From the stern of this procession he watched while they all were drawn into her orbit.

He is speared at the eyes. Joined with her by a line tracing the movement of an invisible weapon. His captivation is loud, it leaks out of him under the pressure of his own body, released with every slow step as he filtered through the convivial crowdings that fell away entirely.

Until it was only them, and he stood open like a nerve across the distance from her; she consummate, and he feeling the tension rise in his eyes simply by touching her own.

Thoroughbred desire does not come along every day, nor does the quality of such a Queen fit so splendidly into the tides of a prince from the river. She was enough to make any man religious.

“Goddess,” he greeted and bent his neck in bow, though not once did his eyes leave her's.