Lion Head Mesa they feed on temple grain ☥

Khaem is elegant. His evening coat shimmers when he moves, his white teeth like glistening glass beads. The princess drapes her neck around his shoulders, “you spoil me.”

She adored him with every sinew in her body, and wondered at the guilt that constricted her heart in admitting so to herself.

What if Satakh were to catch them?
What if Den?

She knew, as she knew the depths of her own soul, the makings of her crocodile brother’s animus towards their second-born sibling. How he would loathe to see Khaem in the niche of her arms, where he was meant to be.

But was it so wrong to fill these empty spaces with bursting laughter and energy from one she loved? She felt undone, as big and bright as the sun in the liquid spill of Khaem’s brace. And where was Den?

Some things she did not profess to understand, perhaps not wanting to, including whatever it was her lion-prince made her feel.

“When do I get to hear my brother’s laugh?” Neith chimes, pressing a cool nose meant to tickle into his chest.