Lion Head Mesa the darkest side of me

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Silvertongue—beside herself—weeping. His jaw clenched—firmly rooted to the spot, and as Senmut tsked at him, not just planting the seed of doubt in the silver woman but pushing it to full bloom—and his eyes sharpened upon the Erpa-ha—again, a feral grin offered to the man.

Surely, the priest must have placed two and two together—Germanicus who had served Belen upon a platter to their palace, the friend Akavir had confided to him of.

No, it wasn’t that Akavir only trusted himself. He trusted others too freely—

Senmut’s dismissal of him would have been met with a wave of a paw, as if swatting at a bug—but he still felt numb—eyes upon Silvertongue, tracing her—as if the puzzle would somehow slot back into place.

“Good luck with your roach infestation,” he snarked toward the priest—finding it interesting that the priest would encourage more enemies to their borders.

Guards would come to collect them—he ensured Eivor remained within his sight, before him—lead through the tunnels underground and back to the desert. Escorted to the outskirts, Akavir caught sight of something—swiping down to grasp at what seemed to be an abandoned stash of fermented berries in a makeshift pouch of skin and sap. “Let’s get fucked up and spar,” he growled, refusing to look back to where his heart lay sobbing in the undergrounds.