Lion Head Mesa Primrose

it was prophets and priests who had made the gods, one argument offered. priests who preyed upon the fear of worshippers and made themselves deities.

but khaemwaset had been reared with no such disdain; he had been bred in spirit and in blood and divinity for the roughhewn red of the thrones.

goldsword eyes watched with quickening wonder as neith ascended the queen's seat. its power seemed to swallow her for a moment, just a lingering shiver of time before his beloved sister  lifted her voice to him.

amiir did not need to be bid again. nailclick on polished floor, mouth dry, and then he was touching the warm stone and moving himself into the seat of pharaoh.

again.

again.

as statues they were still beside one another, until khaemwaset exhaled softly into the velveteen black; "i have sat in this place before."

he raised a paw, gesturing to the vast emptiness of the throne room as if an audience waited for his decree;

"let them know that i, khaemwaset, Lord of Illusions, son of rashepses and son of Ra — i proclaim myself Crown Prince."

to say it! to say it! his teeth glittered as he swung a honeyed expression toward neith, deified witness to his glib treason.