Lion Head Mesa twentieth

they gathered. to each wolf qiao gave an apprising glance. faces familiar to her, some welcome — and some which left her blood cold. 

she stood a respectful distance, a garland of the self-same dried flowers which sprinkled the tiles wrought to her wrist. 

senmut’s voice carried in dedicated strength over the masses. qiao’s gaze followed his own, resting upon the newly minted pharaoh.