Luneshale Pass looks like there's no more room in hell for me

zaahira had known immediately that something was wrong merely by the tone of pharaoh's call.
she had scarcely heard the conversation save for the seething threat: regret testing the might of akashingo; and as she rounds the path carved in sandstone she sees then the willowed figure of eset and the leer of — man. a man. one not of the palace, one shrouded in shadow and dancing around the maidservant like a lion.
he reminded her fiercely of rashepses. of khaba.
a gnash of teeth, the rumble of a growl and then the sound of a body thudding against the earth.
eset.
her blood burns. instinct shoves the formal, dignified training of the sandsoldier down into the dirt, and instead what comes from her is the wretched, venomous snarl of a heathen. should she have the chance, she would quickly maneuver herself to stand between the heckler and akashingo's women. her pharaoh. her eset.
the message is clear.
i will have your head.