Lion Head Mesa know me broken by my master

Akhtar halted their progress with a flick of his tail and a turn of his body to hers. He listened, and he listened, and he was quiet through it all because he could not speak upon the grief of a woman who had been scorned.

The story pours out of her like sand, endless and stinging his eyes. He can feel it in the ebb and flow, in the accent of her words, the grief that drips from her like blood from an open wound. And he stood there without any sutures to close it, only able to hold a rag over it and pray it stopped before she bled out.

Her touch on his wrist spurs him into action, and the saluki dipped his head to press his nose to the top of hers, if only for a moment, so he can speak.

باشد که او در دنیا و آخرت محکوم شود. His mother tongue is as unfamiliar to him, and he feels a great sense of grief that he had so lost a connection to his homeland.

May he be condemned, in this life and the next. He raised his head back up, eyes solemn, but not pitying.

He will pay, be it by our pharaoh’s hand, or by Osiris’s own. His crimes will not go unpunished, Zaahira. I promise you. The hem looked away.

I will teach you death songs, hymns, ways to appease the death gods. And if Akhtar tried to bring forth his own divine wrath? Well, he was entitled to that.