Lion Head Mesa eightieth

“Feral woman,” Rashepses’ cheek twitched, “a sweet way to say noncompliant. If she refuses to heed her superiors now, she will refuse to heed them later, when muscle and teeth are at her behest. If she will not bend to our terms then Pharaoh’s choice to cut her from the lake must be upheld. She will build nothing upon the shores of Great Water.” They would not trust an army to employ upon a flimsy rapport with the lake woman. But it was Senmut’s following suggestion that had the consort pitching a restive paw atop the handrest of his dais.

He did not like the idea of hunting down crumbs for Mereo. The former Imperator had years of training. He was a diplomat, a ranger, and a master. No less would helm the fleet. Yet their mazoi were few and needed at the respective palaces of Akashingo and Muat-riya, and should the time come, his own man would be tasked with safekeeping the royal children. The obsidian king’s eyes were hard but gave a nod of accordance. They would look to the moonwolves and those remnants of the first army. But if none were found suitable, if no man came to ownership, Rashepses knew it was he himself who must take up rank as general.

He did not want it. He had found his eternal flame and promised to never part from her. But a voice ghosted in his ear, the holy writ of the ethereal Pharaoh who commanded what must be done. Amid the musing, his eyes found his wife’s.

When the girl stepped forward to speak, Rashepses’ face grew hard. Thus far the lake had succeeded only in spawning problems for Akashingo. The nebet who first refused her province, then a sound proposal for marriage, was no exception. He waited to hear if this young noblewoman had anything of value to add.