Lion Head Mesa Toiling

The faintest smile touched Isetnofret’s lips at Senmut’s words, his golden gaze steady upon the priest as though appraising something far more precious than the riches around them. The gesture, the closeness of their paws, was met with a composure that belied the subtle.

"Such a story," he murmured, as if tasting his very words upon the tongue. "From the sands to the heights of the gods' favor. I can see why they chose you, Erpa-ha." His paw lingered, the warmth shared between them a fragile thread of connection—intimate yet unassuming. "You carry the grace of one who belongs in such splendor. You are humble enough to call it a gift."

It charmed Isis.

His other foreleg rested elegantly over the fur-lined rug as he allowed himself to relax further into the opulence surrounding them. He could not help but be relaxed. Despite the current of doubt that shouted and roared for him to tuck tail and run, he could not. He drowned in the warmth Senmut offered him. Eyelashes batting and mouth turned to a placated smile.

"I fear there is nothing grandeur about me, my priest. Even despite what meager attempts made. My world has only taken without mercy. What little I am, I carved with endless grasp." His voice softened as his eyes drifted briefly, his lips curving faintly.

He was far too entranced in the Priest's lull to notice the faint flicker of a shadow near the entrance.