Lion Head Mesa Nefrew

Their toddlerhood is the work of mere weeks.

Den is at once privy to princedom and the regency of his blood; the patience required to lay in wait for a moment’s opening. In time, she may come to see how well he can conceal himself, how his premeditated words and acts are never wasted. How his jaws strike, ruinously and reptilian.

Gloating in coltish nips and puppy growls, the gilded sister is blithely unaware of her brother’s truest identity. She tips her cheek to invite his affections, so potent that islands of sunlight warm where his kisses fall upon her throat.

Inside Den was bred a soul indoctrinated to command, a sensation felt and not yet understood by the amiirad as she bestows her own feathery licks, a nibble to his chin.

But just now, she pictures a corona of an imperial color, and wonders if anyone passing can see it too– the bloom breathed out around them, as if they are a pair of twin acacia trees whose boughs were soon to flower.