Lion Head Mesa they feed on temple grain ☥

He is not brother.

He is soft-toned thunder, melodious, obsidian, blistering as earth’s center. Dignity, power, conviction; his touch imposes none of Den’s fastidious harmony, but the promise of intense polarity.

In their life full of distinction, ordered beauty, magic– it was Khaem who was the master. Khaem who had never once turned away from her.

The rhythm of his blood and spirit are true. He takes her hand and suddenly she is swimming in his essence, twined with his flesh.

“Who are you?” Neith asks, flung into the blaze of Ra’s stare–
entirely transparent there.