Lion Head Mesa יַקִיר

there is a voice, a mighty tempest that stirs izaiah's belly into a sea of lava. when he turns to see who it comes from, he's met with a lustrous man built from onyx and staring at him with eyes of molten gold. a shiver runs down his spine.
the servants move as if they are in perfect sync, positioning themselves to where izaiah had eyes on all sides of him. the man's breath smells of wine and blood, and it is warm against his cheek. there was no mistaking his identity.
how old are the paintings? the boy asks, straightening himself so that he may not look so small beside him. he gasps when he is touched, averting his eyes purposefully down to the floor and fiercely attempting to convince his heart to stop pounding before it jumps straight out of his ribcage.
my name is izaiah, his expression remains stoic despite the hint of a crack in his voice. you must be pharaoh's consort.