Lion Head Mesa royal fledgling

The princess’ feet move in graceful diffidence. Mother’s essence dwells here, preserved in the ancient reliefs and gilded coptics, most predominantly in the sharp soar of two vacant seats. Neith’s eyes raise in wonder, enthralled as much by the thrones of crimson stone as she is momma’s shimmering resplendence within the open-air barrazza.

In the center of the room is a red man the girl has not yet met, but whose movements are natively deliberate. She lingers to watch the unveiling of gold-kissed blooms upon a field of white, feeling the blood in her veins prime in answer.

Tucking with her siblings beside momma, Neith beams at Den, the delight unadulterated beneath his adoring kisses. She looks fully into his nile eyes, then at the shadowy faces of her brother and sister, burning with a sagacious knowingness that this is all for them.