Two Eyes Cenote sand & lapis

he followed the rippling waters down to the meeting-room held entirely by @Eset. the man dithered for a moment before entering. a servant glanced curiously at the heavy-shouldered man, only to be scorched by the blue fire of his eyes as he turned them sidelong.

"announce me," khusobek commanded, his eyes waiting to behold the calm nightglow features of the woman who held muat-riya in her soft hand.

and when she arrived, he bowed low before her. "the valley of gold is newly occupied by a family which may be known to the palace. medeiros?"

Khusobek is announced. She arises, cursing beneath her breath, bereft of any characteristic stoicism. Heat floods her veins and there is not enough time to remake herself. Her eyes follow the familiar cut of the mazoi’s shoulders as he enters the room.

Outwardly, she finds his bow appalling. She shifts in her step, glancing through her doorway to see that no fellahin lingered. But when her eyes return to his lowered crown they glint with the shadow of something unspoken.

“Please, Khusobek, to your feet,” she implores and draws back to invite him further into her chamber.

A great effort is made to concentrate, but she only half-listens to the missive, lobbing a fiery objection as soon as he’d finished.

“We have a serious problem.”

already eset was distracted, and cut past his inquiry with a statement which brought pause. "what problem?" the unexpected nature of his bow before her, something he had done mindlessly; now he considered it.

the hebsut had been gone, he knew; the cold eyes of the crocodile moved over the sheen of her shoulder and then away.

he stood, fit to be commanded. to be tied, for his blood had not forgotten eset's artful domination of him.

perhaps that was why he had bowed.

The hebsut feels the skim of his eyes. She had never fully known the true nature of how she’d felt for him. But if a part of her had ever believed they belonged to each other, she knew it was not right.

Khusobek stands before her a different man. She sees his contentment, his happiness. This version of him, he was scarcely the restless mazoi that she knew from before. The memory of him was still there, how they’d once lain entangled on the floor of this chamber. But he was a husband and a father who had found peace, and who was deserving of it. And Eset would never be compelled to rob him of it, no matter how red the old kindling.

So when the ice of his eyes stole up and away from the curve of her shoulder, so too did her’s shift.

“The fellahin Machiavelli is a fugitive,” she reveals, a fraction of herself grateful to be pulled elsewhere. “He is being pursued by a man called Herod and his bounty hunters. He is under the impression they will eventually find him here, in Muat-riya. We need a way to secure the palace.” The revelation is blunt, her tail lashing in indignation, but she pauses.

She was not a soldier, she had not the mind for military tactics. She needed Khusobek.

a threat, and one that engaged the corners of the crocodile's mind, reaching for that knowledge which he had used in service to another pharaoh.

"who is he?" khusobek growled. he brushed a low stand of stone from any decor and used a claw to lay out a rough illustration of the palace.

"who machiavelli is determines what manner of assassins might be sent. if he has committed a petty crime, they may only ask that he be handed over. but if this is a matter of lineage or royalty, they will seek to infiltrate. additional casualties would be accepted by their standards if so."

this palace was her own. it was her power and her throne. "what bounty is on his head? perhaps it can be paid."

“A serf.” There was no other word in her mind for it. Her eyes burn and she shuts them quickly.

When she’d opened them again Khusobek was bent over the stone, tracing their fortress with a drawn claw. No hesitations. She’d never felt more grateful for him. She frees a breath and stands to peer over his mark-making.

“Machiavelli is indebted to Herod. He told me he escaped- only by killing some of his men,” she frowns. “They want to recover him. I do not know the price for such a trade. Is it worth negotiating?”

She did not wish to. She did not want to stand across from a slaver and normalize conducting business with him. But perhaps, and only for the peace and safety of Muat-riya, it was a recourse that should be considered.

"i fear there is more truth to be known. there are very few reasons someone, even a serf, or slave, would be pursued so very far. if he killed a few mercenaries, well. such jobs are paid for such reasons."

but khusobek did not dwell here. "it might be worthwhile to know their price. goods muat-riya can pay. but those who keep flesh tend to demand it in exchange." and the kingdom of toula would not be known as an empire of slaves.

"alternatively, invite them here. give them succor. offer them pleasures of the palace. poison their wine." a broad, dark smile climbed the crags of his hard face, for hatshepsuun had asked this of him more than once.

"we will post a sentry atop the cenote. i will take a second watch in the mornings. you may find it worthwhile to find a taster for any of his meals. not you, eset," the mazoi added with a flash of glacial eyes. he knew nothing about machiavelli. but he knew that their gilded kingdom had dire need of the hebsut.

She stands in quiet consideration. Khusobek was right, she realized. They did not know Machiavelli- not truly. He was a target, or otherwise a weaver of lies. Perhaps it was only the naïveté in her heart that had seen herself in him.

But her stomach falls away at the idea of exchanging flesh; at the suggestion of poison. How many nights had she lain, darkly livid in her room and fantasized of passing final judgment? And still she could not sanction such an act as fathomable. She needed distance. She needed to see them as game pieces on a board. It was too difficult to think of them as flesh and blood.

“We will look to you and Stark to guard all access points. Muat-riya will present a trade first. The palace is filled with riches. Rare ones. If we should fail to find an agreement-” her voice falls away, concluding only with a stiff nod.

“I do not believe the others will need to adapt how they live in the meantime. We will extend an invitation to the Medeiros family and host a welcoming feast in their honor.”

But there was another thing. “Will you trust me, Khusobek?”

"do you think i do not, eset?" khusobek rounded, wounded despite his surprise and himself. but he straightened, giving a nod that was beyond his initial reaction. "i trust you implicitly."

muat-riya had no success without eset. and if the crocodile had forced her to consider that khusobek felt differently about her ascent, for that he meant to make amends.

against the cool floor did his paws flex slowly, the strength of them hard and wanting to be softened by the sheen of her papyrus-leaf shoulders, the lotus-fall of her commanding voice.

his heart was the only part of khusobek that did not belong to eset, he marvelled with a sudden realization of his perfect placement in this house of lords.

"i shall keep your watches and guard your trades. but it may be best if you send another to the medeiros wolves. i was — firm."

She does not answer, only allows the familiar storm of his eyes to fill her. Something gnawed, reached, yawning for life. And Eset knew she would hate herself. She also knew hating herself was what made it feel so good. The extremes of feeling, of needing it to hurt.

But it was a kind of love she’d made over and over, awakening in a pile of ash with the smoke still in her lungs.

Khusobek was a mazoi to her; loyal guardsman, devoted resident of Muat-riya.

She nods, straightening, tearing her eyes ahead. She would send Legend as a messenger to the valley of gold.

"One moment," she asks of Khusobek before calling to a passing fellahin, “please have @Machiavelli brought to my quarters.”

I have no clue how the timeline for this would work but it's fine probably LOL

It was not long before the fellahin appeared in the doorway of Eset's meeting room, hesitating briefly before being summoned inside.

The opalescent gaze flicked to the man, studying him momentarily before turning to the woman, his pelt prickling with unease despite his attempts to smooth it. There was something familiar about this newcomer, though he could not immediately place it. Hebsut, the wolf-dog greeted with a deferential bow, extending the same respectful gesture to the stranger.

From his lowered stance, he regarded the man with curious intensity, trying to place the familiar face—or rather, smell. It took only a moment of contemplation before the realization struck him. The intertwined scent of the silver woman who had accosted him, the russet coat of the child who had escaped from her den. His eyes lit up with recognition.

This must be the husband.

Hebsut, he repeated, addressing Eset once more with the same respectful tone. His gaze, however, remained fixed on the man. How might I service you?.

this machiavelli turned out to be a sumptuous wasp-waisted man who invited the coldwater eyes as easily as any temple dancer. the crocodile did not shower him with a moment's adulation, however.

"our hebsut tells me you have a pursuer. i served a pharaoh as captain of the guard. i understand revenge, assassination, political murder, and simple cases of mistaken identity."

had he a torch, he might have held it close now to illuminate that gossamer face.

"in order for me to protect you, to best serve the hebsut, the pharaoh, and the kingdom, i must know exactly who you are and what you have done."

he pinned machiavelli with icepike eyes and fell into expectant silence.

She exchanges no words. Khusobek instigates his interrogation, his line of questioning quick, sure; deadly. Eset contemplates one man, and then the other, breathing in the tension.

She would not play good cop in this scenario. What followed from the hebsut was only reticent silence as she awaited Machiavelli's answers.

The man's crystal gaze pinned the wolfdog with an intensity that froze him in place, rendering him motionless as he absorbed the torrent of questions hurled his way. His gaze darted to Eset's anxiously, the dread pooling at his paws and turning them to stone.

A pursuer, yes, he cleared his throat, voice calm—steady, I believe that to be the case.

I am nothing more than the humble servant of Pharaoh Isetnofret Toula, and further, the generous Hebsut who allowed me a place to reside, The man responded, his tone growing increasingly tense. His demeanor, initially collected, began to crack.

The Prophet, Throat of the Divine, One who the Gods have Heard, and Speaker of Godsmouth the opal eyes grew cold, tone harsh and commanding, yet the feathered tail twitched nervously. That is who I was.

I escaped from Godsmouth some months ago, shortly before I arrived here, but not before killing many of their Priors. His voice dipped into a sinister register, a dark sneer curling across his lips as he recounted the tale, I invited them all to a lavish feast and poured poison into their wine. The venom in his tone was palpable. And I watched them choke and writhe as the light drained from their sorry eyes.

The halfbreed's tail lashed furiously, ears pinned back against his skull. That is what I did, he declared, the words ringing out like a death knell. And if I were back in that hell I would do it again.

a brow was arched as machiavelli insisted upon his identity, but the fellahin soon had much more to say.

"understand i have no judgement of you," the crocodillian intoned into the face of pretty defiance. "i, khusobek, find it impressive you killed so many alone and were able to escape. my role is to discover what danger, or lack thereof, that your presence here might bring to muat-riya. so. speaker of godsmouth. i must ask now who you served."

a lifted paw indicated that the man should sit. they would be here for a while longer, but it did not need to be an uncomfortable interrogation. he too took a seat, cold eyes warming only minutely as they settled upon eset to gauge her reaction.

"knowing who you and they are will help muat-riya to ensure your safety. if you were a holy man in a past life, for instance, i expect an assassination attempt following infiltration. but if you were a slave in this manner, it may be your captors will only demand payment for your freedom."

the broad shoulders rolled smoothly. "tell us everything. leave nothing out. names. places. locales. descriptions. i would personally rather execute these men in the desert before they find muat-riya, or you, machiavelli."

“And then you miraculously escaped,” comes Eset’s dark, viper’s voice. When Khusobek glances she shoots him a wary look. He echoes her own fears in the danger this fugitive invites to their doorstep. Perhaps even purposefully. She had little way of knowing Akashingo’s full history, and with recent attacks on both palaces she could not rule out the verge of a wider plot. It was her duty to think broadly now.

Machiavelli’s eyes are tempestuous. She feels the crystallized edge of his glare when they find her face and she strives to shut out the feel of his ruined body beneath her palm. Instead she finds her stolidity, sculpting herself once more into amber stone.

“Please continue,” he is prompted.

The title fell from Khusobek's mouth like poisoned briars, each syllable a cruel barb that pierced through the forming cracks of the man's carefully constructed composure. The fellahin flinched as though struck, a tremor running through his frame, and for a fleeting moment, he almost wished the blow had been physical.

Please, Machiavelli growled, the plea clawing for respect yet faltering before it reached its mark, don't call me that. His hackles flared in a terrible defense, a futile attempt to shield himself from the past that was being dragged, kicking, and screaming, into the present.

He was asked to sit. Sit. Sit. The command echoed in his mind, but his body remained stubbornly immobile, muscles locked in place. The realization dawned on him with brutal clarity: how much trouble it would save the pair to kill him now and solve the whole ordeal before it even began. Muat-Riya would remain undiscovered, and the families inhabiting it would be safe. His gaze darted from the floor to the complementary pairs of eyes.

Reluctantly, he lowered his haunches to the cool floor, body tense and coiled like a spring ready to snap at any moment. His paw reached for his tail instinctively, seeking the familiar comfort, but he froze, realizing his paw was trembling. He pulled his hand back swiftly, hiding it beneath the curl of his feathered tail, and hoping the tremor had gone unnoticed.

He could feel the eyes of the pair upon him, their gazes heavy with expectation. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, and the half-breed's ears remained flattened.

A smile spread across his muzzle, the ears uncurling to sit upright upon his skull.

I ruled as the puppet monarch of Godsmouth, a kingdom far to the south, from the time I was young, Machiavelli began, his voice a silken whisper. A puppet to Herod, the Abbot, an older man with a silvering blonde coat and wheat-yellow eyes. He served as my advisor, or so it appeared to the world. In truth, he made all the decisions—who to turn away, who to help, what gods to call upon, and what rituals would best serve them.

Machiavelli leaning back, his posture relaxed and his smile widening, though the opal eyes remained alert. Herod is very powerful, but also very rich. There is a chance we could all benefit from this, and add a great amount of wealth to our Pharoah's treasury.

machiavelli had been harmed, and in turn had leveraged the same against his captors. it was a classic if uncomfortable narrative, and khusobek's brisk mind cut to the heart of the matter. that smile, however; it would have to go, unsettling the crocodile behind his solemnity.

the icewater eyes moved to hold those of eset for a moment, as if drinking a truth from her gaze; he cut them back toward machiavelli and cocked his broad head. the fellahin acted as if he and the hebsut were a pair of adders ready to fall upon him, but such was the price of service to gods.

or those who called themselves such.

"in effect, you were prince to a nome far beyond akashingo. we will assume with no further need for details that this herod wishes to repossess a living soul." and what is the worth of yours?

a pause followed. "herod. a powerful man." his eyes told machiavelli that he assumed the truth of a pretty youth and a controlling official in his prime. "perhaps powerful enough to be too proud. the matters of wealth are not mine to discuss, but if it is a price he wants, i have faith in the pharaoh to match it."

but was the moonweave servant worth such? a fallen prince hidden in a desert kingdom; how laughably romantic. "until then, you will stay close to your lords and to your duties. you will not leave without escort, or without escorting someone else. and i want you to rotate your sleeping area, for a time."

the crocodile blinked cunning eyes. "what will you face if you fall back into herod's hands, machiavelli?"

exit!

“I’ve heard enough,” the hebsut curls her lip, disgusted. That he believed for a moment they would consider trading the safety of their people for any wealth of a kingdom!

Eset stepped forward now, paws splaying, hackles tensing, jutting her chin high so she might look straight into those deceptively alluring gossamer eyes.

“He will not be without escort, because he won't be going anywhere. Machiavelli, you are under arrest for the attack on the mazoi Legend of Akashingo. You will be held until trial.”

She is quick to recoil, coming alongside Khusobek in search of his consolatory ice.

“Take him to the pits.” The mazoi could continue his questioning there. Eset would hear no more.

WOO! Ty for the thread!!!

The fellahin's brow furrowed ever so slightly as Eset interrupted, casting his cool gaze squarely upon amber eyes. Until—

Legend? he breathed, his voice a mere whisper, eyes widening in apparent shock. The word hung in the air like a ghost, an echo reverberating through his mind.

His heart pounded in his chest, a relentless rattle of dread and disbelief. Yet, he did not protest. He did not lash out or demand explanation. Instead, he padded along quietly, his steps as soft and measured as a cat’s, a dove slipping through the dimly lit corridors.

The word repeated itself in his mind, a unending mantra that threatened to consume him. Had something happened? Had she changed her mind about him? Them?

Legend. Legend. Legend.

His thoughts spiraled, each repetition of her name a dagger twisting deeper into his heart. The memory of her bright, mischievous eyes and infectious laugh flashed before him, haunting his every step. His breath hitched, a lump forming in his throat as he looked past the winding tunnels and into the past, seeking answers that eluded him.

Legend. Legend. Legend.

amazing thread! <3

this was unexpected. but with the fluidity of a well-trained servant in his own right, khusobek questioned nothing. his nod to eset was a jerking thing; he buffeted machiavelli's shoulder with his own brawny arm.

legend.

her name too echoed in his mind, and his shoulders flexed with the powerful anger he could now vent upon machiavelli.

to the pits.