#setokisa week

Set’s fair-haired girlfriend had taken her seat, Mana found, when she returned to the banquet hall from her trip to the latrines. She was sitting on Pharaoh Atem’s left-hand side, with her knees pressed together under her. She sat hunched, with tight shoulders and a red face. She averted the Pharoah’s eyes as she fiddled with a piece of flatbread.

Mana had met her once before, when she had followed and pestered Set on her Master’s orders. Kisara had been wearing a ratty brown tunic at the time, one that was torn in several places, and Mana had ended up lecturing an irate Set on how to provide for a lady. But the ratty brown tunic had not paled her features the way the white linen she was wearing now did. She would have looked better in dyed purples or tans or reds – less like a ghost.

Poor dear, Mana though. And she’s so shy too. Kisara was her elder in age, but Mana felt grown-up and in-charge by all practical comparison.

The Pharaoh Atem had caught Mana staring, and turned to meet her. His face brightened, and he scooted over on his cushion, offering Mana a spot at his side. But Mana grinned, and signed to him her refusal. It would do good to let Set’s girl speak with him alone, and see he was not so frightening. And, more importantly…

Mana’s eyes zoomed in on the cake that had been set out over the feast table. It had been placed suspiciously close to Set’s place at the table. She pointed towards it, grinned mischievously, and wiggled her eyebrows at Atem.

The Pharaoh Atem laughed and waved her off, towards the cake, and Mana nodded and circled quickly around the table.

She passed her Master along the way, who was entrenched in a conversation with Priest Shada. Mana turned her hand and whispered a spell as she past, and a gust of wind picked up and the cloth of Master’s headdress fluttered up to drape over his face. She was long gone, by the time he’d realised what happened, and Mana snickered as she passed Isis and Kalim and swung down into Kisara’s empty seat, next to Set.

Set turned to glare at her briefly, before he turned back to glaring at the Pharaoh.

Mana bounced in her seat and ignored this. Set was always glaring about something. She arranged the plates on the table in front of her, pushing them aside to leave room.

“Can you pass me the Basbousa?” she asked, tugging on Set’s sleeve with one hand, and pointing to the cake with the other.

She pouted when Set glanced down to her, briefly, and then turned back to Atem and Kisara, chatting on the opposite side of the banquet table. He crossed his arms stubbornly.

Mana propped herself up onto her knees, and lunged over Set’s place at the table. She grabbed the bowl with the cake in both arms and dragged it back to her seat. If she got some hummus over the front of her blouse in the process, she didn’t care. She stuck her tongue out at Set in retaliation, and dove into the cake bowl.

She was halfway through her second piece of cake when Set snapped at her.

“Stuffing your face while he-” Seto scoffed disdainfully. “Are you not the least bit jealous?” he demanded in a hushed snarl.

Mana blinked. She turned to Set, and followed the way his eyes panned over towards Kisara and Atem, sitting next to the other, turned diagonally to face each other. Atem was drawing his fingers over his palm, and then pointing to Kisara’s.

“What do I have to be jealous about?” Mana asked plainly. Bits of cake flew from her lips.

“Isn’t he your-?!”

Seto scowled and went silent.

Mana was not such an insecure child. Her place was set. There were uncertainties, of course, but in all likelihood she would be the court magician far into her next life.

Mana shrugged and turned back to her food.

The rich, nutty taste of the cake melted on her tongue. They had added citrus peel to the flour – just the way she liked it.

==

Kalim was speaking over her, past her at Mahaad. They were discussing labour agreements and salt trade and gossiping about the guests from across the sea. And Isis would not usually have found such a thing unpleasant, had she not already worked past a couple of cups of barley wine. It was the time of year, and the time of evening of the time of year, were most wished only to relax.

The breeze carried warmth even into the nights, blowing through the open halls and balconies and stirring up the scent of myrrh from the oil lamps. The moon and stars shone down over the glistening waters. Already the flood season was upon them, and the river had risen up past its shallow shore and into the fields. And the tiny green tips of the crops peeked up over the water, between the reeds, and they promised all of Egypt’s life.

It was a time when people wanted nothing more than to drink and chat and to stare out over the river and the desert and the city and ponder the upcoming year. The guests were leaving their seats to mingle, and to wander the parts of the palace that had been opened in celebration of the New Year. But Isis had already seen their success, and she found herself driven into this game of musical chairs, rather than wait patiently for Kalim to finish barking in her ear.

She tapped Kalim on the shoulder, and asked him to switch seats with her. And he startled, like he’d only just realised she was there. But he acquiesced, and Isis slid down into the seat next to Set, and smiled secretly at Mana attacking a bowl of cake on his other side.

Set did not grace her with such a smile. He was focused intently on the girl and the Pharaoh on the other side of the table. Kisara was plaiting her hair in demonstration, attempting to instruct Atem, whose own hair was much less malleable to such a suggestion.

Isis smiled to herself.

“See, your worries were unfounded,” she spoke to Set. She raised a hand and gestured vaguely to the other side of the table.

Set frowned. He did indulge her with his direct attention. But that was fine. Despite himself, Set could not help but be a source of entertainment and indulgence.

“I don’t recall airing any such worries to you,” he spoke crisply.

Isis laid one hand down on the banquet table in front of her, then the other one on top of it.

“You did not need to,” she said. “I could see it.”

It took Set a moment to respond to that. But then he turned and scowled at Isis. “You do not have your Necklace anymore, Priestess,” he hissed.

Isis smiled. “And you don’t have your Rod,” she responded.

When Set floundered and frowned deeper, she took pity in him.

“One hardly needs foresight to register your concern,” Isis said. “And, besides, I’ve spoken with her. She said she was very nervous about attending a banquet in the Pharaoh’s presence, and being formally introduced to your family. But see-” Isis tapped a nail against the table. “Your father was not cruel to her. None of us have said a word against her. And the Pharaoh even seems quite taken.”

“Is there a point you intend to make sometime soon?!” Set snapped.

Isis faced him calmly. “Is there?” she asked.

Set grumbled. He looked away with a roll of his eyes. He pouted a little while longer, and then-

“Mahaad said he wasn’t expecting someone like her,” he grumbled.

“Mahaad said he thought you incapable of revelling in anything or anyone so humanistic,” Isis rephrased.

“He laughed at me,” Set hissed.

“Yes, but he did it kindly,” Isis returned.

“Yeah!” Mana protested suddenly from Set’s other side. “Master Mahaad’s been nothing but nice to you, so you better not cause any trouble,” she shot out, around a mouthful of cake.

Set rolled his eyes again.

“And this one is far less afraid of you,” Isis said. She winked at Mana. “So only good things have come of recent events.”

Set glared – at Isis, then at Mana, then across the table at Atem and Kisara.

“She’s common-born,” he protested. “She was a slave – passed around, used, and discarded.”

This effectively stole all the air out of the room.

Isis shuffled uncomfortably in her seat.

“You speak as if you don’t want us to like her,” she said dangerously. Set’s jealous tantrum had effectively stopped being funny. “Common-born or not- Even if the power of her Ka was not what it was, even your father can see the effect she’s had on you.”

Set turned his head down. “That’s not what I-” He huffed and abruptly steered the conversation around. “Why is it, Isis, that you must always butt your nose into my affairs?!”

“Well, it’s not as if you butt into my affairs,” Isis said. “If I didn’t do it, what else would we talk about then?”

It would have been an easy statement to rebuff, had Isis made it to anyone other than Set. He frowned, crossed his arms, and returned to staring moodily at Kisara.

“Ooooh, I’ve had enough of this!” Mana announced. She stuffed the last of her cake loaf into her mouth, pushed the rest of the bowl away, and licked the crumbs off her thumb. She stood abruptly and swallowed heavily before speaking. “I’ll take care of this!” She jumped up on one foot, winked cheerfully, and began to skip around the table.

Set watched her wearily.

“What is she planning?” he asked sternly.

“How should I know?” Isis asked.

Set turned to meet her eyes for a second.

Isis held them. She would not give on this – would not bend. They had fought, so as not to know the future.

They both turned to watch the spectacle that was Mana arrive next to the Pharaoh on the other side of the table.

She swung past him, dragging her hand lightly off his shoulder in the process. He abruptly stalled his conversation, and turned up to greet her, but Mana brushed past him. She caught Kisara’s eyes and sat down on her other side.

Kisara stood to attention, sitting up in her seat. She relaxed as Mana ruffled her hair, and then tensed as Mana leaned in and whispered furtively in her ear.

When they broke apart, Mana grinned and giggled.

Kisara’s face reddened. She glanced over, unsure, to where Set and Isis were watching.

Whatever Kisara saw there, it seemed to relax her. She seemed drawn in by the safety of Set’s gaze.

Mana had returned to the far side of Atem. Atem smiled up at her, confused, but he scooted over when she sat down next to him and pushed him to his left – towards Kisara. His earrings rattled under his ear, as he shifted in his seat, and Mana reached up with one hand to stall their sway. Then she turned his face forward in her hand, and leaned forward to press a kiss into his cheek.

Which would have been fine. But then Kisara scooted forward to her right and leaned down to kiss Atem’s other cheek, just a beat behind Mana.

Atem faced forward, wide-eyed, and flushed badly.

It was only a second, then both of them pulled back. Atem cradled both cheeks in his hands and shook his head, embarrassed. Mana laughed and patted him fondly on the head. Kisara curled her shoulders in, and chuckled self-consciously into her hand.

Set fumed.

Atem and Kisara seemed to be settling back into conversation, but Mana turned to meet Set’s gaze across the table. She pulled at her eye and stuck out her tongue at him, before returning to the other two.

“She’s far, far less afraid of you, it seems,” Isis observed to Set.

Set still seemed incapable of words.

“Do you want to try?” Isis asked, plainly, turning to him curiously.

Set was still lost in a storm of incoherent blusters.

He quieted immediately when Isis reached up. She ran her hands briefly through his fine brown hair. His headdress was pushed askew, as she pulled his face down. His posture stiffened, and his eyes skewed tightly shut, as she drew her face closer. But, perhaps against his expectations, she bypassed his lips and pressed a cool kiss to his forehead.

She held him there for just a second. His skin relaxed against her fingers, and the salty taste of his brow spread over her lips.

And then she pulled away. She released her grip on his head, and turned to the other side of the table.

Kisara was enraptured, but not by the kiss. Mana was telling some story and pantomiming wildly – perhaps mimicking a raftsman paddling an oar. The Pharaoh clapped encouragingly, and jumped in every so often to help with the narration.

Isis pressed a ponderous hand under her chin. “I guess she wasn’t paying attention.”

For a minute, Set met Isis with a blank stare, then he turned back to Kisara, despairing.

“I guess you’ll just have to go over there yourself and sort things out,” Isis told Set, contentedly. When Set didn’t move right away, she prompted him. “Well…”

Set’s face contorted into a bitter frown.

“And people call me heartless,” he shot, as he pressed himself to his feet and strode off, to meet Kisara and the others at the other side of the table.

Isis laughed and waved him off. It was about time she stood and moved too.

She wanted to speak with the guests from across the sea. She wanted to see the moon and the fields and the floods, and to show them to somebody. She wanted to welcome in the New Year with people she didn’t know and with hopes she’d never dared to indulge.

She didn’t know what would come of Set’s confrontation with the others, but she didn’t know how any of it would go.

She got up from her seat and walked off, humming a tune unknown even to herself.

==

Mana was, in fact, a masterful storyteller, Atem decided.

Kisara applauded enthusiastically as Mana finished preforming her snake dance. Mana called back her illusions and gave a self-satisfied bow before returning to sit, cross legged on a cushion she had set diagonally from them.

“It must have been a sight to behold,” Kisara marvelled.

Atem laughed. “Well, yes. But not so much as Vizier Siamun’s reaction.” He waved his hand nervously. “He was so scared. I think he mistook the illusions for actual snakes. And when he found our partner in crime hiding behind the screen…” Atem laughed again. “You know Priest Set can glare twice as fierce as any snake. The haunted look he prompted from Siamun... it was the look of a man who might well still have nightmares to this day.”

“And Priest Kalim fared no better when we tried the trick on him!” Mana snickered. “Although Master Mahaad was too keen to be fooled! But it was okay, because he offered me tricks on how to improve the illusion!”

Atem smiled at her. He grasped his left wrist in his right hand, and rubbed his thumb over his golden bracelet.

He was distracted from Mana’s smile, when a dark shadow appeared over them.

Atem turned and brightened.

“But you may as well ask the man himself,” he cheered, speaking to Kisara. He turned up to the man standing above her. “Priest Set, we’ve been expecting you for quite some time!”

Set frowned. He opened his mouth to speak, was cut off when Kisara spoke.

“Ah, Lord Set!” Kisara flushed. She scrambled up to her knees and shuffled to the side. “I did not mean to leave you for so long. Here – sit.”

Set made no move to sit.

“There is no reason to call me Lord,” he snapped.

“Ah,” Kisara floundered. She sank back down into her seat.

The regret could instantaneously be perceived on Priest Set’s face. He looked helplessly as Kisara turned her head down, deferentially. And his helplessness gave way to anger. Set glared angrily at Mana, who seemed far more concerned with fiddling with the plaits that Kisara and Atem had worked to braid into Atem’s hair.

Atem watched Mana out of the corner of his eye for a second, before turning to return Set’s anger with a stern look. This did not cow Set. Instead, he turned to meet Atem’s own gaze harshly.

Atem resigned himself to what was. It would seem he needed to guide Set by his own example.

“Sit down, Priest,” Atem bade. He gestured to the servants for an extra cushion. “We’ve been exchanging stories about you.”

Set’s eyes narrowed suspiciously – first on Atem, then on the cushion the servants set down beside Kisara. He pursed his lips, and seemed to struggle internally, before crossing his legs under him and taking a seat.

“About me?” he asked. “What stories?”

“Oh!” Kisara jumped in. “I was telling the Pharaoh about how we met! About how you saved me!”

The girl beamed at Set. Atem could not help but feel absurdly proud for him.

A feeling which vanished almost immediately upon the opening of Set’s mouth.

“One would have thought,” Set snarled at Atem, “that you had already heard the story from Priest Shada.”

Atem met Set’s eyes blankly. “Priest Shada’s reports understandably tend away from romantic speculation. You’ll excuse me for wishing to hear Miss Kisara’s account of the event.”

For a moment, everyone sat, regarding one another with varying levels of fear and hostility.

Then Set’s eyes softened and drooped moodily. Kisara reached out to place a hand on his forearm. He did not react.

Atem shook his head.

“It’s nothing bad,” Kisara reassured softly. “And, in return, they were telling me stories from your childhood.”

Set turned to her. His face was tinged with blood. “My… childhood…?” he asked unsurely.

“Oh, yeah,” Mana said. She was still pulling at Atem’s hair. “All those stories from before we were apprenticed. We just got done telling her the story of how we hid snake illusions in a pot and scared Priests Siamun and Kalim.”

Set startled. He flushed harder.

“W-What embarrassing things are you sharing with her?” he stuttered.

“Relax,” Mana said. “We didn’t tell her how, in return, Siamun threatened to come into your room at night, kidnap you, and throw you into the Nile.”

Atem laughed. “Now that’s a story,” he recalled. “Priest Set was terrified. He kept making excuses to return early to his quarters. It turns out he spent all this time setting booby traps on his door, so they’d be lying in wait when Siamun came to grab him and feed him to the crocodiles.”

Kisara gasped, scandalised. “Vizier Siamun wasn’t serious, was he?”

Atem waved a hand dismissively. “Of course not, but Set was convinced otherwise.”

Mana stopped fiddling with Atem’s hair temporarily. She grinned mischievously and crawled forward from her seat over to Kisara, and whispered the rest of the story to her.

Set looked as if he were five seconds away from forcibly tossing Mana from the room. But he was quelled by a sharp look.

“How precious,” Kisara gushed.

Atem smiled. He wasn’t sure if he’d call it precious – a ten-year-old Set had been so terrified of Siamun’s empty threats, he wet the bed. But it was nice to know they all enjoyed these reminders of Set’s more human moments.

Well, all of them except Set, anyway.

“I see,” Set said testily. “So this is an attempt to humiliate me.”

“Nonsense,” Atem protested.

Mana reply was simultaneous. “Only because you make it so easy.” She pouted as she slumped back in her own seat.

Set fumed.

“Oh, it’s not humiliating,” Kisara protested. She smiled at Set. “You were a child. It’s completely expected.”

She pressed her hands together and beamed at him.

Atem smiled at the two of them. “If you’re worried about your repute, Priest Set, most of the stories I shared are less…” He trailed off tacitly. “I shared tales of your mother, and our classes with Siamun, and the times we snuck into town. And Mana spoke of the boat races.”

Set did not seem pleased by this.

“Ah, Priest Set doesn’t care about those stories,” Mana protested. “He only cares about kisses. After all, it’s what got him to come over here.”

Atem blushed. He lifted his hands to his cheeks, and cradled where Mana and Kisara had graced him with their lips a moment before.

“I- I don’t see how I did anything to deserve such a blessing,” he sputtered.

“Yes, how?!” Set snarled furiously.

“Tosh,” Mana said. “It was for good wishes in the New Year,” she told Atem. “And for being such a fair ruler. You have done everything to deserve it.”

“Ah,” Kisara floundered, turning to Set. “You know there was no deep meaning…”

Set scowled, but nodded briefly.

“Enough about that though,” Mana said. “Don’t you want to hear about Set’s first kiss, Kisara?”

Atem felt himself flush slightly. “Yes, that is a good story,” he admitted, scratching the back of his head self-consciously. He smiled sheepishly between Kisara and Set.

“Oh, yes, please,” Kisara prompted eagerly. “Tell me.”

Set’s expression communicated a silent horror, one that nobody seemed to want to give way to.

“You see…” Mana explained. “In their youth, the Pharaoh Atem and his faithful servant” – she took this opportunity to wink at Set – “really did not appreciate the prospect of marriage and matchmaking in their future. So, they made a certain pact with one another.”

“Magician,” Set seethed, warningly.

Mana paid him no heed. “So they enlisted me to marry them to each other, so they wouldn’t be stuck with someone they didn’t like. We had this whole big ceremony in the palace garden,” Mana marvelled. “We invited the entirety of the palace menagerie.”

“Yes,” Atem laughed. “Do you remember how much trouble we got in for releasing the lion, and letting those exotic birds fly away?”

“Sooo much trouble,” Mana agreed. “But it was worth it in the end, to see Atem and Set married.” She winked. “It was on that happy occasion that the Pharaoh and Set shared their first kisses.”

“Oh my,” Kisara laughed. “That’s positively adora-”

“Humiliating,” Set finished for her.

Kisara’s face fell. “Lord Set…” she protested.

“You should not refer to me- as Lord,” Set snapped once more.

Kisara flinched.

Set followed suit. “No. I didn’t mean-”

Atem cleared his throat. He sat up as straight as he could in his seat. He would never be able to bridge the distance between his and Set’s height, but-

“Priest Set,” he said, in his most stern voice. “I think you should consider…” he paused for dramatic effect, “that this young lady has spent all evening asking after you.”

Set flushed badly, but he grit his teeth and spoke quietly.

“For your sake as well, Pharaoh, there are things I would believe you’d prefer not to have discussed. Our youthful folly, being one of them.”

It stung, just a little bit, how far they’d drifted apart – since Set’s apprenticeship, and Atem’s ascension to the throne.

“I don’t see why?” Atem replied. “I am not the least bit ashamed of the fact that I care for you, Priest Set.”

Why else would he sit here, entertaining the girl with stories of her beau, if he did not care for Set’s future with her?

Priest Set had nothing to say to this. He sighed tiredly, stood, and left.

Kisara seemed almost shocked it had happened. She pressed herself up on one knee. She looked longingly at Set’s retreating back.

But then she stopped.

“Do you think I should go after him?” she asked, turning back to Atem. “I mean, Pharaoh, sir…” She stumbled over his title, and reddened deeply.

Atem tried to smile placating.

“Well, if you run you can still catch him,” he offered, looking back at where Set had exited the banquet room into the hall.

Kisara stalled a little longer. She let her hesitation make the decision for her.

Mana had returned to messing with the plaits in Atem’s hair.

Atem smiled across at their guest.

“Set can be very difficult, I know,” he admitted. “But I am sure, no matter how long you wait, you will find him, and he’ll meet you halfway… What is it you wish to do, Miss Kisara?”

Kisara hesitated a moment longer. When she spoke, her voice was quiet.

“He can be very distant,” Kisara admitted. “I want to hear more about him. I want to know all of his struggles and joys, past and present, and for him to hear mine in return… I would like to hear more from you.”

Atem smiled again, secretly. It would be nice to have this place to put these memories to rest. A place where they’d be put to good use in the future.

He reached up, to where Mana had ahold of his hair, and squeezed her hand. She turned her hand into his and squeezed back, so naturally, Atem wondered if it was instinctual.

“Well, then,” Atem smiled, “here’s the rest of the story…”

==

She found him much later – outside the palace’s front steps. He was staring up at the moon.

Set could hear her approaching. He could feel the soaring, bright tinge of her Ka blanket his back, far before she walked up beside him.

“There you are,” she said plainly. She leaned slightly over against his arm, and then retreated again, leaving a hand’s width between them.

Set’s eyes cast downward. He reached up and removed his headdress.

“Are you upset with me?” Kisara asked smally.

Set bit his lips shut. He was not sure how to respond. By all measures, there was nothing for him to be upset by. His hands tightened around the rim of his khat.

Kisara reached out with both hands, and pried his fingers open. She took the headdress and rushed away. At ten paces, she placed it on the ground, and reached back to pull off her sandals.

Set pretended not to watch her, but sighed as she ran barefoot across the coarse earth. Her feet were already calloused and course and scarred, unlike what should befit someone of her station. Of her new station.

Kisara seemed unworried though. She pulled the plaits loose from her hair, as she returned to him, and she grasped his hands tightly.

“C’mon,” she prodded. And she pulled him forward to dance. His feet toppled over hers, but she only laughed and redirected them with taps of her heels. She loosened her grip on his hands, and beat her fingers against his palm in motion.

Set struggled to keep still. “To what tune are we dancing,” he prodded.

“You just have to follow my steps,” Kisara said. She hopped back on one foot and drew him forward, then spun them both around.

“You should sing something then at least,” Set prompted.

Kisara laughed. “I’m terrible at singing.”

He was unimpressed, incredulous, and he let his eyes show it.

She shrugged and acquiesced. The lullaby she sang was known to every man, woman, and child of Egypt. Her voice strung high and loud, and cracked dry and sharp on the ninth note.

Set cringed.

Kisara laughed. “See, I told you,” she said.

She pulled him around, and directed his arm to spin her back. Her white hair swung behind her like a veil.

“Why don’t you sing?” she asked. “They told me you used to sing at all the banquets. War songs and elegies.”

Set grumbled. His dancing slowed. He let Kisara lead him right. “Did they?”

Kisara nodded. “They said you had a deep and smooth singing voice, smoother than honey.” She patted his hand softly. “I’d love to hear it sometime.”

Set frowned. He pressed his heel into the ground and turned. “Would you?”

Kisara frowned herself. “I believe… you are just being contrary.”

Set felt ashamed when she looked away, dejected.

Set picked up his feet. He directed their steps, where she would not.

“I have known them my whole life,” Set said. “I believed myself an orphan, after my mother fell ill, and was raised as the Pharaoh’s playmate – a clear inferior. Priest Akhenaden did not come forward as my father for many years, even after I worked tirelessly at his side.” Set huffed. “Priest Mahaad has never been one to hold his tongue. Nor Isis. Nor Siamun. But, truly, I believe they all despise me,” he spat. “Even after all this time.”

He stomped the ground. The dance abruptly stopped.

“But you have walked in and won them over in one night,” Set said.

“Dear…” Kisara sighed. Set could hear the sole of her foot scrape the ground. “It seems you are a very foolish man.”

Set growled and turned away.

“You know I was afraid to meet your family, and out Pharaoh,” she prompted harshly.

Set grumbled in agreement. Kisara had made such insinuations, and Isis had confirmed as much. He believed, still, he had no reason to doubt either of them.

“Well, I was concerned I’d have nothing to say to these cold, imperious politicians. But-!” she protested, “as soon as I spoke of you, they opened up like blooming water lilies.”

Set would not face her, but she was not deterred. He could feel as she stepped forward and hugged his back. The White Dragon curled around him possessively.

“Let me tell you a secret,” Kisara whispered up into his ear. “I suppose you could say… I was a little bit jealous.”

Set could not stop the snort that escaped up through his nose.

“Jealous?” he asked.

“Yes,” Kisara replied, pressing into his back. “You know I cannot remember my family. My earliest memories were with the slavers. So I’m a bit jealous of you with your cousins and your Priests and your father, no matter how distant. I am jealous of all your histories and your stories and…” Kisara shifted under his arm and looked up to his sulking face. “And of all the memories they have of you, from before I got to know you.”

Set turned his head up to the starry sky. The warm night carried the lonely scent of the silt and the floodwaters.

What Kisara had said was, in its own way, very upsetting. He wasn’t sure he quite believed her. Was it really that he had that much to be jealous of? Or was it just that the world was that monstrously unfair, and she really had been so cursed so as not to have even a fraction of the ill-fated blessing that was his Pharaoh and his fellow Priests?

He turned to face her, and bent down to kiss her nose.

“I see,” he said. “In that case, you’ll have all the time in the world to build your own stories and memories and histories with them.”

Kisara giggled, as he cradled her face and pulled it up to his.

They recognise her accursed body even without the white hair; she can’t be rid of her blue eyes and pale skin. She’s always had to rely on theft to eat – she just doesn’t have the will anymore to act as ashamed about it as she feels.

Her hair’s grown out to her shoulders – not so long that she can’t cover it with her hood. She most often steals at dusk, as they pack up their stalls, when they cannot so easily make out her features. They see her anyhow. They remember her. They remember Abu. But she’s prolonging it as long as she can.

Abu, her white lizard, distracts them, as Kisara flings dates and beans and fruit and bread into her bag. She cannot run the fastest, but she is deceptively strong for her stature, and she creates blockades in her wake and pushes her pursuers back down the streets, in the direction from which they came, with nothing but her bare hands.

They start calling her Kisara of the Cursed Eyes. It’s a silly name. It doesn’t mean anything other than she’s not welcome, which is how it’s always been anyhow. She takes shelter in abandoned warehouses and empty rooms and easily accessed rooves. And she curls up with Abu, who is not warm, being a reptile, but he appreciates her warmth in the cool of the nights.

It doesn’t really register to her as a problem before a squadron of palace guards begin to pursue her instead. Somehow, the name she’s unwittingly made for herself has spread. And she cannot push knives and scabbards away from herself without cutting her hands.

She’s had to become nimbler, quicker, more clever.

It would mean more if she could use it for anything good.

There’s a parade in town, and huddles in a corner to see the arrival of a visiting Princess.

Ah, Accursed Kisara, the townspeople greet her. You should not show yourself to the visiting Lady. If she is cursed while travelling to this land, you will make things very difficult for the Pharaoh~

Or perhaps you should show yourself. It would teach those rich fools in the castle to bade the wishes of the common folk.

Kisara heads the first warning, and ignores the second.

When the crowd dies down, she slinks down to the streets. In the wake of the fabulous parade, there are children crying from hunger, and Kisara’s had a good day today. She pulls the bread and dates from her satchel, and offers them, against Abu’s protests.

But, even as hungry they are, the children will not touch food offered by the accursed. Any food they eat, they will steal for themselves.

==

The man is obviously out of place. He wanders through the stalls, and eyes them with a disinterest that temporarily crumbles, breaks down to reveal awe. And then the solid, stoic expression is replaced, once more.

It’s more than that, though. His clothes are simple, but too well kept. He looks through the crowds, like he’s never seen any of these people before, and Kisara has certainly never seen him before. She watches from above the market street, from the balcony of a deserted residence. She’s climbed up here, to eat the melon she stole, and watch the sun move across the horizon. Abu lazes in the shade.

The man’s gathering what looks like travel supplies. He’s shouting at the merchants for a horse and non-perishables. He refuses to haggle with them. Everything in his gesture and his being are a source of irritation for the merchants and patrons around him. The guards have already been alerted to his presence.

Kisara giggles.

Abu catches her attention with a flick of his tail. He’s warning her not to get involved.

Kisara’s not so gullible though.

At least, not until the man notices a pair of young brothers clamouring for apples at one of the stalls. The man turns, taking note of the merchant’s stubborn glare, and he plucks two apples from the pile and tosses them directly to the children. He doesn’t break eye contact with the merchant. The challenge is clear.

A brawl has broken out a moment later.

And, perhaps it’s foolish, but the guards are approaching – to apprehend the man, undoubtedly. The children are running away, already chewing contentedly on their apples. And the man has done something Kisara has wanted to do her whole life and, if there’s one thing Kisara’s become really, really good at, it’s avoiding the guards.

Or maybe, she just really, really wants someone to talk to.

“Let’s go, Abu,” she prods, flinging herself off from atop the balcony.

She’s directly behind the man, by the time anyone realises she’s entered the fray. He swings at her, instinctively, but she ducks and pulls at the bottom of his robe.

She looks up and meets his eyes. His eyes are dark, squinting out from under his bangs, but his expression catches her with only the basest level of surprise.

“Run,” she commands, pointing to the guards piling around them. And then she shoves him forward along the path – the quickest way to safety.

He falters, as he stumbles forward. She goes to grab his hand to pull him along, but he flinches back from her. For a second, she thinks he’s reacting to her eyes, or her hair, or her reputation, but then the merchants begin to throw rocks at the two of them. And, instead, he eyes them with hatred. He moves to cover her.

She’s somehow dragged this traveller into her own struggle, in the process of trying to help him. She feels guilty, but perhaps it’s for the best. This way she will receive the bulk of the blame.

“Traveller, you should run,” she says. “Before the guards see fit to arrest you.”

He frowns. He obviously doesn’t enjoy being told what to do. But then he nods.

“Which way?”

And then they’re off. Abu catches up with Kisara, and crawls deftly up her leg, under her tunic, and onto her uncovered hand.

The man eyes Abu. His eyes narrow, and he opens his mouth to speak, but there is no time. They’re barrelling through the streets, past merchants and customers, and then performers and day workers. And the guards and the rocks are in hot pursuit. Kisara finds a pile of barrels, along the river street, and she topples them with a heavy push of her arms, so they fall behind to create a commotion to slow the guards. She turns down another alleyway, intent on getting the guards to lose their train, and the man follows her, through to the streets on the opposite side.

They pass a number of oddities. River reeds, palms and sands, a herder with his donkeys, hostels and brothels. And, eventually, they’re not running, but walking. And then they’re not walking, but sitting, exhausted, with their backs against the clay wall of a communal house in the slums. The guards have long since been lost.

Kisara pulls her hood up over her head, tighter, to hide herself from passers-by.

The man eyes her, curiously, out of the corner of his eye.

She laughs. “Stranger! Traveller!” she addresses him. “Have you seen this city before?”

The man’s eyes narrow. It’s a moment before he deigns to speak.

“I have not seen anywhere,” he admits. “This is my first time out of my village, my first day here, my first stop.”

“Where are you from?” Kisara asks. “I’ve seen many places, to the south and to the west. Perhaps I know what village you come from.”

The man snorts.

After a moment, Kisara realises he’s not going to speak more on this subject.

“Stranger,” she prods. “I know the place, with the best view in the city.” She smiles. “Do you want to see it?”

The man glances at her out of the corner of his eye. His cheeks have tinged, ever so slightly.

“Please,” he agrees.

==

“Your… pet,” the man decides, as he climbs with her up the steps against the steeps. He pauses when she climbs up a seemingly flat wall-face, and up onto the roof of a building. She turns and reaches down to pull him up – but it takes him several tries climbing the wall himself to let her help.

“Your pet,” he starts again, after he shrugs off her hand, and pulls himself up against the side of the building. “What is it?” he asks.

Kisara blinks. “You mean Abu?” she asks. “He’s a lizard.”

“A lizard with the same completion as you,” he prompts, pointing to Abu’s white scales and deep blue eyes.

“That’s just a coincidence,” Kisara waves him off.

“He seems awfully intelligent for a lizard,” the man continues.

Abu, sitting on Kisara’s shoulder, turns his head up dismissively.

“Isn’t that normal?” Kisara asks, distracted. She’s intent on making the jump over to the next of the rooftops.

The man frowns. “No,” he says, jumping ahead of Kisara. “Lizards are not that smart.”

“Well…” Kisara follows. “What else would he be, if not a lizard?”

The man frowns. “A dragon.”

Kisara laughs. And when she does, the man’s face scrunches.

He lets the subject drop. Which is good, because Kisara has finally led them to her cove, built into the corner of a rooftop. You can see the whole of the river and the desert from here but, most importantly-

“Isn’t the palace beautiful?” Kisara asks dreamily, as she slumps against the dilapidating clay. She’s surrounded by broken vases, and torn curtains.

The man snorts. “Spoken like somebody who’s never seen the politics and pain luxury can bring.”

“Yes,” Kisara says. She turns to him offended. “Why would I have? I’ve never had a single sliver of luxury.”

The man snorts again, but his expression softens.

“Apologies,” he grits out, through clenched teeth.

Kisara sulks. Abu crawls over to her opposite shoulder.

“We’ll face the other direction then,” Kisara says, turning away from the palace. She goes to sit on the opposite end of the roof, with her legs dangling over the edge. She gazes off towards the south, where the river spreads to floodplains and, eventually, to valleys and lakes.

After a moment the man joins her.

He sits close to her, but not too close. She supposes this is also part of his apology.

“Why did you come here, if not to see the palace?” she asks.

The man frowns again. “A palace… is like a cage. I wanted to escape,” he says. “But I also wanted to find something…”

The man’s speech peters off again. He is unwilling to share more.

Kisara scoots a little closer to him, on the ledge. The man does not move away.

“You are not afraid of me?” Kisara asks.

The man’s brow furrows in confusion.

“Afraid of you?” he says, almost dismissively.

“My hair. My skin. My eyes,” Kisara says. “They say my body, even my existence, is cursed.”

She smiles.

The man snorts.

“Albinism,” he says.

It’s Kisara’s turn to squint in confusion.

The man elaborates.

“Either your relatives are not from around here, or you have albinism, a pigmentation disorder,” he says crisply. “Do you know where your relatives are from?”

Kisara finds this line of rationalisation very odd. She’s not entirely sure how to take it, so she defaults to answering his question.

“Not really,” Kisara says. She remembered growing up, ostracised at the orphanage steps. She remembers travelling from town to town through the desert, and the way Abu would crawl in front of her and lead the way through the night, reflecting the moon off its back. She remembers getting caught by the slavers, and escaping, and then getting caught again.

But there are no parents in her memories.

The man nods. “You know,” he rambles, “they say white snakes and white elephants are revered in the south east. Even here in Egypt, white peafowl are kept as pets in the palace. In the centre of Africa, there are albino frogs that are popular pets as well.”

“And how do you know all this?” Kisara teases.

“I have studied a great number of texts,” the man says.

“A scholar?” Kisara asks, surprised. She knew the man was of higher birth than her, but- “You can read?”

The man seems bewildered. “You cannot?”

Kisara cannot. Where would she have learned?

“Of course you can’t,” the man answers for her. He’s mumbling to himself, trying to place together pieces of a puzzle Kisara can’t see.

Kisara breathes. She thinks about the palace – a cage, as this man says.

“You cannot keep me like that,” Kisara says.

“Excuse me?” he asks, peeking out from underneath his brown bangs.

Kisara smiles.

“You cannot keep me like that. Your albino fowl and frogs. I won’t be your pet.”

She taps him on the shoulder and, when he turns to face her, she taps him on the nose.

“Ah,” he falters, “I did not mean to suggest-”

“I know you didn’t,” Kisara said. “I’m just making our relationship clear.”

The man blinks. “Relationship?”

“Of course,” Kisara says. She turns away and shrugs, without missing a beat. “We are speaking. We’ve saved each other from the guards. We are already acquaintances – that’s a relationship.”

The man looks confused again.

“I don’t even know your name, woman,” he says. It sounds stern, but his face is softening again.

“Kisara,” she answers. “And you are?”

Before the man can respond, the guards are yelling. They’ve been found.

Kisara scrambles to her feet, and the man does as well.

The guards are approaching from one side of the roof. On the other side is a drop, but one Kisara knows will be safe.

The man follows her blindly to the edge, but pales when he sees where Kisara is heading.

She turns to him.

“Do you trust me?” she asks.

Set seizes. His posture becomes stiff and ramrod straight, and he looks afraid.

Kisara understands that, but fear cannot be a reason to not move. She reaches for his hand and, with her deceptive strength, pulls him forward into her body.

He doesn’t resist as they topple together off the side of the building, and down into a pile of love and cloth.

==

They are caught, of course. And Kisara is chained. Not only for theft, but for kidnapping a Prince of the Royal Court.

The man, Akhenaden, comes to speak to her. Except it is more than just the man. Behind him is the shadow of a beast. A grinning man with a scar. And then another shadow – the ultimate darkness.

They need a thief, and that’s what Kisara is. And, while Kisara is unsure about helping them, she is made aware that Akhenaden is the man’s, Prince Set’s, father.

She has no way to help Set from the dungeons. It’s either she takes this opportunity and asks the rest of the questions later, or she rots in the cell. So she accepts.

She’s not even aware of what she’s gotten into, until she’s lying broken on the stone floor. Her back is split with pain, and she gazes up at the darkness of the stone ceiling.

The oil lamp rattles on the floor. And she’s not sure if it’s an unconscious delusion, when the djinn pour out like so much smoke.

Your desire? they ask.

Kisara’s voice cracked. “I only wanted to be someone who could be of use,” she whispered. Abu curled up against her elbow.

Silence, then-

If you don’t mind me saying, it kind of depends on what that means to you, one of the djinn calls out.

Let’s just do somethin’ already, the other one says. It’s been forever since we were out!

The magic is already working. Her wounds are healing. The sunburn is retreating. Her eyes shimmer and darken.

Aliye, is the name they decide upon, at her rebirth. A diplomat – Princess Aliye.

==

She looks up from the garden to Set’s balcony. The night blooming flowers smell sweet, and the pollen and fragrance gathers around her in a whirlwind, as the carpet takes flight underneath her feet.

He pretends not to see her, not until she’s right in front of his face.

“The carpet,” he says, warily. “How did you get it to fly?”

Kisara flusters.

“I, uh, found, er, bought it like that,” she stammers. “Pre-enchanted.”

“I don’t believe you,” he says, annoyed. “You have to enchant it yourself to get an item like that to work.”

Kisara’s not sure what to say to that. She had found the carpet like this – with an almost human-like sentience and the ability to fly. Only Set has every reason to be distrustful.

She has to convince him to leave with her. Has to convince him of the danger of the shadows that surround his father and his uncle. Except he doesn’t seem to be convinced of anything Princess Aliye has to say.

A pair of locusts are buzzing near her ear.

Listen! You’re more than a match for moneybags now, after everything we’ve done for ya! Just make a move! A pathetic guy like that’s just dying for a babe who’s willing to do the work for him!

The other locust bumps into the first.

Don’t be crude! Their stars are already aligned! You know all she has to do is be herself!

Don’t you start with the creepy horoscope crap again-

Kisara waves the locusts away.

“Have you ever ridden on a carpet?” Kisara asks.

Set meets her expression with the slightest hint of disdain.

“It’s really quite something,” Kisara says. “You know, I could show you a great number of places, from atop a magic carpet.”

“Don’t care,” Set says.

“Didn’t you want to see the world? See more than just the palace?” Kisara persists.

Set grits his teeth. “And how do you know that?” he accuses.

Kisara feels herself blush, ashamed.

Moneybags is a tough customer, eh?

Kisara waves the yellow locust away again. She pouts and ducks down below the balcony, to grab a hold of the carpet with both hands.

She’s gratified to see Set bend over the balcony to watch her.

She grabs the carpet and pulls it forward. It races through the air above the garden. She directs it into turns and swirls and loops, and she feels oddly confident that this performance isn’t going unnoticed.

The carpet tumbles back and forth, and weaves through the gaps in the palms at the edge of the garden. They circle through, one last time, before pulling into a triple summersault above the balcony.

The white locust seems to understand her need for a grandiose entrance. And Kisara hears him chant and sparks erupt in a colourful burst as the carpet lands flat on the balcony, next to Set. Kisara’s standing, if a bit unsteady on her feet.

Set’s watching her, stunned.

She reaches her hand out to him.

“Let’s go,” she says. She tries to grin shyly. “Do you trust me?” she pleads, her hand outstretched.

It strikes Set as foolish, that she thought he wouldn’t recognise her, even before she’s said those words. He’s not so blind that he can’t see the similarity of her features, plain as day on her face. He’s not sure what the magic is that surrounds her – how she changed her eye colour and skin tone and name. But he’s going to find out.

Now she wears the dyed teal garb of the Wedju theists – she is the Head Priest in all but name. It is her they must summon to confine the Ka of criminals and vagabonds. But, in name, she is still Isis’s apprentice, and she must cover her Wedju garb in pure white robes and attend her training meekly.

They do not know what else to do with her. Not her father. Not the Vizier Siamun. Not her insufferably smug cousin.

“Do not attempt to control them with the Rod,” Isis warns her. The High Priestess is sitting on the parapet of the palace gates. The Necklace gleams in the sunlight.

“Do not attempt to control me with your visions!” Set snaps irritably.

“Ah, so you’ve learned.” Isis smiles wryly. “Suggestion can be as persuasive a measure of control as force… This goes doubly so for Akhenaden, Siamun, and the Pharoah. The power of the Eye, the Ankh, and the Puzzle keep them safe from the Rod’s direct influence.”

“It won’t keep them safe from Duos,” Set snarls. She pulls angrily at the fit of her robes. She realises only afterwards how treasonous her words sound. “I would not-” she protests. It’s not really that she would want to hurt them, only be free of them.

“I know you will not,” Isis reassures. She frames her hands around the eye of the Necklace, and it gleams. “I have foreseen it.”

Set strides to the other side of the battlement. Isis is insufferable. Or insufferably beautiful. The others have pleaded with her to keep Set in line, but Isis refuses to direct their sessions, even as she refuses Set’s requests to cancel them. Isis is unbending in the most infuriating way possible – the kind of way that leaves no one is satisfied, save herself.

“What haven’t you foreseen?” Set spits dangerously.

“What your father has.” Isis turns away from the edge and smiles at Set. “We see different parts of you and, thus, different futures for you.”

Isis’s headdress catches the light as she turns.

“Don’t be cross,” she placates. “You want to battle.”

Set does. Set always wants to battle. Her Ka takes form before Isis’s does. Duos, in the masculine. He takes his sword, and slices it against Spiria’s hair, and back, and neck.

Spiria cries out angrily. And Set knows she’s grinning like a maniac, one slice away from Isis’s surrender, when the Magus of Illusions steps in.

Duos catches the blow, before it happens, pushes angrily against the Magus’s rod, but the message has been sent. Set sees Spiria dissipate and retreat, and she recalls Duos and turns angrily to glare at Mahaad.

“You are too rough. Too ruthless,” Mahaad scolds.

“And you,” Set allows, “are an ineffectual old fool. It is a wonder the Pharaoh places his trust in you.”

The fool’s apprentice, Mana, cowers behind Mahaad’s leg. It occurs to Set that there would be nothing Mahaad could do to protect the successor of his Ring, should he come to blows with Set. There’s no question who is the more powerful fighter between them.

“There’s more to trust in the kind and forthcoming,” Mahaad says.

There’s more to trust in the weak, Set hears.

“Couldn’t you see you were hurting High Priestess Isis?” Mahaad asks sternly.

“I thank you for your concern,” Isis cuts in. She gasps for air, recovers as she stands. “But she is my apprentice, Mahaad.”

Isis approaches Mahaad, stands properly at ten paces. But they speak so intimately, Set turns away.

Mana is watching her in awe, but she looks away when Set turns to meet her eye.

Set glares.

Eventually Mahaad sighs. He beckons for Mana, and together they leave, walking father along the parapet. He says no further words to Set.

“Hn.” As he should, Set thinks. Mahaad has tried to leverage many things over her – from her temperament, to her familial relationship to Atem, to her femininity itself – and, each time, he has failed to cow her.  It’s about time he learned.

Isis presses a hand into her shoulder. “Don’t fret,” she says. “If it’s control you want, you shall have it. Control, power, you shall gain both in turn, and neither will be as you perceive it.”

Set snorts angrily. “Not so long as Mahaad is skulking around.” There’s no denying that Mahaad has her cousin’s ear.

Isis shakes her head sadly. “No,” she agrees. “Not while Mahaad is around.”

==

Shada is, in most ways, the most malleable of their little group. He is, in a way the others are not, susceptible to Set’s glares and moods and prying suggestions.

Set finds this, in many ways, more despicable than the worst of Mahaad’s presumptions. But Shada’s Key will be useful and, perhaps, the comparison with Mahaad is unwelcome so soon after his death.

“You will follow me to the city,” she commands, “and you will use your Key to help identify any with a powerful or suspicious Ka!”

“Priestess Set,” Shada fumbles. “This is a direct infringement against your cousin’s, the Pharaoh’s, orders. We cannot simply pry into the hearts of the innocent.”

“Then it will be on your head, when another like the Thief King breaks through the ranks of the city and attacks the palace.” Set smiles calmly.

Shada follows her, of course. He would worry, even with the whole of Wedju’s soldiers at Set’s beck and call. He follows her into the streets, and protests when she takes leave of her palanquin and calls the soldiers to round up everyone on the block. She ignores him except to periodically remind him to continue his investigations into the people’s Ka.

“The Pharaoh would never forgive you,” he says, holding the key up to his chest.

“It’s not me that thirsts for forgiveness,” Set smiles wryly. The fact that the Pharaoh would hold Shada at least as complicit in this crime goes unsaid.

Shada protests, too, when Set makes her way down the seedy alleyways surrounding the Winking Camel Pub.

“Set, do you not think of your safety?” he pleads.

Set snorts. “Where else would be a better place to find criminals?” she protests, bursting into the pub behind her soldiers. There is a raving man, telling some fairy tale about the mirage of a White Dragon, who helped him find his way in the desert. Shada says his Ka is dark and corruptive, but not large enough to be a threat. Set is not so deterred. There are rumours that one’s Ka can grow under the right circumstances, and how else to explain how a low-class vagabond like the Thief King had such a powerful Ka. Set’s eager to see this theory brought to life.

Back outside, they’re approaching the public well – a place where countless citizens are usually gathered. Set is looking forward to seeing what’s in their hearts. And all the more so when she sees the crowd beating a young woman, denying her water.

The woman wears a cloak and a hood, but nothing can hide the glowing white hair streaming down from her face, and the pale skin burnt red and blistered and bleeding. And the sun reflects so brightly off her features, Set cannot actually see any of her. Except the delicateness of her form, and her feet. She’s barefoot and her soles are calloused and her toes are bleeding, but she still has all of them, which is more than many can say.

“What have you all done to this woman?!” she protests, sending her soldiers forward to surround the crowd. “You threw rocks at a defenceless girl?! You’re all lesser than worms! I could see your hands cut off for this digression!”

She nods to Shada. He gets the message and holds up the key. He begins scanning the crowd for evil Ka.

The crowd is pleading with her, asking forgiveness, making excuses.

“Do you not see her eyes?! Her skin?! The girl is cursed!”

“The only accursed ones I see here are you!” Set shouts. The guards move forward to cow the crowd further.

But Set hasn’t really seen the woman yet. The soldiers have gathered her up off the ground. Set will have to give them orders. Who knows what’s to happen to the woman, what liberties the soldiers will take with her, if Set does not threaten them otherwise?

The men carry her to Set and Set looks down. The woman is already unconscious. She is slender, with delicate features. There are dark bags under her eyes. There’s a sloping curve to her neck as it falls down into her chest and under her dress.

Set wants to reach down and feel the girl’s sleeping form.

She is no less enamoured by beautiful women than Shada. Set clicks her tongue dismissively.

They’re all despicable, aren’t they?

“Priestess Set!” Shada calls. “This woman’s Ka-?! It’s greater than any I’ve ever seen! This White Dragon! It’s stronger than anyone else’s in this plaza… including our own!”

It’s an excuse to send the girl back or, otherwise, it’s the reason Set begins to care in the first place – Set doesn’t know. Set’s not sure it matters.

“Take her back to the castle!” she commands. “Make sure she’s treated for her wounds. If any of you harm her,” Set lifts up the Rod, “you face the wrath of Duos!”

==

Set visits the woman several times while she’s asleep. Set peels back her eyes to confirm her irises are as blue as everyone claims. Set stops short of adjusting the collar of the woman’s cloak. Set doesn’t need to indulge this.

Her father is priming her, deep in the depths of the underground prison wing, in the torture chambers. His servant explains the growth of monster Ka.

What makes us strong, is the will to live.

Akhenaden picks at his beard, and then at his teeth. He listens quietly, as Gebelk explains what measures of torture produce the best Monster Ka. Set is unsurprised to learn that psychological torture is more effective than ripping out people’s toenails.

“It may seem distasteful,” Akhenaden says quietly. “But you’ll need this power, when we have a new Pharaoh!”

“And I suppose that will be you,” Set spits jealously.

Akhenaden seems genuinely surprised. “I was talking about you, my daughter.”

They look at each other, baffled.

“I know,” he continues, “that I was distressed when my daughter took hold of the Rod at such a young age. But it must be you!” he protests. “I am too far gone! It is you that will take Egypt in your hand, and hold it up from the depths. All I can do is give you the power to do it!”

“Father…” Set says, and she grins manically as her father pulls her into a hug.

This is it – the culmination of her pursuits and ambitions!

If this is not the future Isis saw for her, then she has no need of Isis’s future!

They drag the woman with the white hair to the underground arena. The prisoners are fighting with their Ka, fighting to live, to not be dropped into the depths.

The guards lead her down, but they cannot make the woman watch. She turns away from the pit.

Her eyes are a brighter blue when she’s awake, Set realises.

“Are you the Priestess Set?” she asks. A blush fills her cheeks. She curtsies smally. “I must thank you for saving me. My life is indebted to you.”

Set is seated on the underworld throne. She turns away watching the criminals battle, unimpressed.

“I see… What’s your name, woman?” Set asks.

The name starts in the back of the woman’s throat, then slips up just behind her teeth.

“Kisara,” the woman says, “…is what I’m called,” she finishes weakly.

“If it’s really your life that’s indebted to me,” Set says, feigning boredom, “then step into the arena.”

The woman protests.

Set reassures. “You, too, have a Ka – one that can surpass the Gods.”

“I do not,” Kisara says, unwavering. But the guards shepherd her into the arena’s entrance.

The other prisoners call a truce. They back Kisara into a corner. Their Ka lunge forward.

It’s almost too late when Set realises Kisara’s prepared herself to die.

“Duos!” Set shouts. She stands from her seat and rushes forward into the arena.

Duos reaches Kisara just in time to deflect the attacks.

Her father and his servants are calling after Set, but she can only hear the prisoners.

“And here- the Priestess Set has arrived?!”

“Time to pay you back tenfold for sticking us in here!”

“Stupid bitch! We can do anything we want to her now!”

Kisara runs to her, and grabs hold of her teal garb.

With Kisara unwilling to use her Ka, it’s two against one. So Set takes a gamble. She calls for Duos again, and he cuts two of the chains holding the arena ceiling. Set encircles Kisara’s waist with one arm, and holds fast to the remaining chain with the other.

Only one of the prisoners falls, though. His Monster Ka has woven a web. Duos is captured. He sends down his own Ka to finish the job.

And then there is the sudden flash of white light.

Set looks down into her arms. Kisara has fainted, but her body shines, and from it emerges around them the White Dragon.

The White Dragon preens. It circles around Set and its host. And then it opens its mouth up towards the remaining prisoner and blasts through it. Blasts a hole that lights up the whole sky, from miles underground.

Set laughs. She turns down to face Kisara, who’s passed out in her arms, and lifts her up to press their lips together.

This will to live. It’s all she needs.

Her father’s servants are warning her. If she wakes Kisara, they may still fall. The White Dragon may be all that’s keeping them afloat, and away from the pit.

Set doesn’t care though. She presses further into Kisara. She presses her tongue against the inside of Kisara’s cheek, and gnashes her teeth possessively against Kisara’s chapped lips. And she becomes emboldened when Kisara’s unconscious body doesn’t respond to the pulse and push of her own.

Her father’s men pull them up by the dangling chain, and the White Dragon shimmers and pulls back and disappears.

Set’s carrying Kisara in both her arms, bridal style.

Her father sighs at her.

“Why would you do such a thing?” he asks warily. “Why would you risk yourself like that?”

Set doesn’t know if he’s talking about rushing into the arena with Duos, or about the kiss. But it doesn’t matter.

The White Dragon… The path to the Pharaoh’s throne…

She chuckles.

Atem said it kindly, a simple matter of observation.

It was Kujaku that took it a step further. “You’d be better not to get too attached to it, hon,” she clicked her tongue, dismissively. “Who knows what it’s hiding? What it’s planning? Even when they’re not a cover for human faces – human spies – they’re already all too liable to break your heart.” She leaned to speak into his ear. “Especially the weak hearts of men,” she teased.

Kujaku was one to talk, though. She was already too attached to her harpies, and the two dragons that followed behind them. One was so wild, it had to be chained. And the second – it was too wild to be chained at all. Its body was charred like coal, and its red eyes gleamed like embers. And Kujaku doted on it, even when it broke out of its stable one night and made a mess of the food stores.

Seto was a much more responsible beast tamer. He oversaw an entire herd of Battle Oxen, as well as the White Dragon. And he didn’t make excuses when they stepped out of line, the way Kujaku and Mazaki did with their beasts.

But, most importantly, he didn’t get attached.

It was not attachment he felt when he found the beast. He’d been overseeing trade inspections at the border, and he’d almost missed it actually. The dragon was being smuggled in as part of a large shipment of polished rice. His men overturned the entire contents of three carts in the caravan and, after finding nothing more incriminating than a caged exotic bird and a bag of plums (both confiscated) Seto decided it wasn’t worth the time and trouble to inspect the rest. He rationalised his lingering feelings of doubt, as he stood next to the centre cart and signed off the paperwork.

“Waste of time,” he’d muttered viciously. “Zork’s Empire – gearing up for attack. Diabound. The Thief. And Atem has me wasting my time with these trifles.”

He stabbed at the reports.

“Father…” he’d bitten back. “Mokuba…”

But no sooner had he walked away from the side of the cart, to hand over the report that would clear the trading company for import, than the cart rumbled and, from the side, burst a stream of light that cleared straight through seven other transports, and through the side of the border’s barricade.

Seto turned back, and watched the side of the cart dilapidate and slump. White rice poured over white scales, and it took a minute before his eyes narrowed in recognition of the beast’s head, tied and restrained.

Seto tore up the papers in his hands. There was no way that power could belong to anyone else. A struggle was already starting between the traders- no, smugglers- and his men at the border patrol. He reached for the long knife at his belt, and turned to meet the beast’s captors. He’d show them Seto Kaiba did not need to even summon his Battle Oxen to deal with scum like them.

It was not attachment when he peered into the White Dragon’s eyes, and found in them the same blue as his own. It was a lust for power. And, once the smugglers were dealt with, and the rice and broken wood pulled from atop the dragon, there was nothing to the way Seto frantically ripped at the ropes and hacked at the chains restraining it. And he tore the skin of his own hands in the process of seeing the weakened dragon unchained.

At least one of them would be free, he just wasn’t sure which.

Following its release into Seto’s hands, the White Dragon had been cowed immediately. It had taken to following him around, and following his commands, even before he could begin to properly train it.

This was not attachment, either.

If the White Dragon was obedient, this was only correct. It recognised Seto’s commanding presence – his power, his restraint, his genius. Seto had freed the beast from its captors, after all, and it was smart enough to understand deference and respect.

The limits of this felt surprisingly easy to test. The beast had taken to being saddled and ridden with surprising ease, and Seto pushed forward with this course of action, despite Kujaku’s warnings that riding a dragon so soon into its taming was liable to get him bucked-off from fifty feet above the ground. But the White Dragon was cleverer and more faithful than that. It responded easily to spoken commands. It would change course at the lightest suggestion of Seto’s words and the slightest shift in Seto’s posture. It would attack without hesitation, when Kaiba called for its White Lightning, or its Burst Stream. He had taken it on several enemy raids, and it was as ruthless and fierce and quick to respond to Seto’s changing assessment of the battlefield.

Not only that, it was now the strongest beast they had, save for Atem’s Exodia, which required a complicated summoning ceremony to call forth.

The White Dragon was such an easy beast to control Seto had actually begun to sabotage it. Would it fly itself into a cliff face, if Seto commanded? Would it attack that cliff face, while it was in range for being dragged under by a resulting avalanche? Would it attack a friendly force? Would it become aggravated if Seto gave it conflicting commands?

The results of such tests pleased him even more. The White Dragon seemed to toe the fine line between intelligence, and a reckless disconcern for anything other than Seto’s words. It had a keen discernment for Seto’s desires. And it was not afraid to put itself at risk, even as it shied away from anything that would undoubtedly cause serious damage.

Seto became convinced the beast would even attack one of its own kind, if he commanded. He felt eager to test this out, if they ever found another white dragon to begin with.

This was not to say the White Dragon was always well behaved. It made errors, as everyone Seto knew was wont to do.

Once, while flying behind Seto on some errand, it accidentally struck its wing against the tiled roof of a residence. Seto had been furious with it, but the anger had easily redirected at the owners of the residence, when they came out to argue against Seto’s ownership of the beast. They seemed personally insulted that anyone, even a beast tamer under command of the King, should let such a fearsome beast fly freely. The White Dragon had cowered behind Seto, as he tore into them. He’d been planning to see them reimbursed for repairs to the building, but now…

And there were other, less accidental things as well. Seto was irritated to find the White Dragon seemed to have a mind of its own. After getting into several vicious tiffs with Kujaku’s Black Dragon (of which Seto approved) both dragons were found curled up next to one another, asleep.

“Well, it’s good they’re getting along,” Kujaku beamed. “My dragon and your spy~” she winked.

Seto had huffed, displeased that Kujaku wasn’t being a receptive audience to vent his frustrations to.

And the White Dragon seemed to like Mazaki and her beasts, as well. While Seto attended meetings with King Atem, or was otherwise occupied, Mazaki looked after the White Dragon in the fields behind the castle. Seto would return to find his beast playfully chasing Mazaki’s herd of Happy Lovers.

“I was concerned, given how powerful your dragon is, that she would hurt the angels. But she seems to have a very mild temperament.” Mazaki smiled at him.

Mazaki’s Maha Vailo was standing behind her, it grinned at him far more ferally. The decorations on its elaborate headdress swayed, and the glaives at its shoulders shifted against one another, metal upon metal.

“She?” Seto spat, offended.

“Your dragon,” Mazaki specified. “Yuugi and I noticed first. But Atem told you she’s wearing an enchanted form, didn’t he?” Mazaki didn’t wait for an answer. “Aren’t you curious about who, or what, she is?”

Seto refused to listen further. He shot one last glare at Mazaki, before calling for the White Dragon.

He turned to leave. He didn’t have to watch to know the White Dragon would follow him. If he was content in this assurance, it still was not attachment.

If the White Dragon toed the line of acceptability, if it nudged the Happy Lovers gently aside and pressed against Mazaki’s outstretched hand before leaving- It was difficult for Seto to feel justified in his anger when the beast seemed to so implicitly know where the boundaries were.

He was angry, though. Late at night, Seto paced in the stable, mulling over his newest letter to Mokuba. The latest in a series he had nowhere to send.

He cursed himself for being so foolish, all those years ago. It had seemed like the chance of a lifetime, when Gouzaburou had come to offer him the chance to study and be taken in for a position at the royal castle. Seto didn’t have the background, but he had the brains, and he had no idea he’d signed himself up for five brutal years under Gouzaburou’s tutelage, before Atem had taken over his own father’s throne, and Gouzaburou had taken a short trip off a tall tower.

At least that’s how the story got told.

Not that it helped, when Mokuba and the rest of Seto’s family had disappeared in the meantime, and left a trail so cold it might as well have been paved with ice.

“I’ll find you- I’ll find you- If I don’t die in the next battle with Zork’s forces-” Seto recited his letter aloud, aware that he sounded more crazed than sane. It didn’t matter. Mokuba couldn’t hear him. “Or, maybe, if I die- that’s how I’ll find you. But, no, I should look everywhere in this world first-” His words cut out like knives.

The White Dragon watched him pace. Its wings stretched, and its legs tensed, but it was too wise to approach Seto in the midst of his recitation.

“I still have the locket you gave me,” he ground out, yanking the chain around his neck. “I won’t rest until I can return it to you…”

When he was done, he glared at the dragon, whose eyes had followed him the whole time.

“What would you say?” he asked it. “Does it sound okay?”

The White Dragon flipped its tail and roared. It was oddly quiet.

“Of course, it doesn’t,” Seto growled. “It sounds like the ramblings of a terrified fool!”

He flung his pen at the White Dragon. It bounced harmlessly against the white scales, but the dragon growled in upset.

“You don’t understand anyhow!” Seto accused. “How could you understand?! I’m wasting my time talking to a stupid beast!”

He was imagining it, when the beast’s eyes narrowed with hurt.

“I didn’t mean that,” Seto reassured, automatically.

He began to rationalise. If the beast did understand him, the apology was in line. And, if the beast didn’t understand him, no one would hear his foolishness.

“I didn’t mean that. I’m just-”

His words stuck in his throat.

He returned to pacing, and balled the letter up in his hand.

“I promised,” he croaked. “I promised I’d find him… Mokuba…”

Seto woke up in the stables. His coat stuck to his sweaty skin. The White Dragon had curled its tail around Seto’s body. The narrow end of the tail encircled his arm and pressed up against his hand.

Seto didn’t know what that was, but it couldn’t be attachment. What good was getting attached? What good was caring about anything – when you couldn’t save anyone?

They met Zork’s forces at the eastern border, and Seto lost himself in the manic rush of battle. He pressed the White Dragon forward and, as streams of light burst from its maw, it raked its head back and forth to take out as many members of the undead army as possible.

Seto laughed. Atem snapped at him to calm down, from his position in the rear. He was still working up the presence of mind of summon Exodia.

It was going wonderfully though. At least until, Diabound came upon them. Even Diabound could not have stood up to the power of the White Dragon. But against a different target-

It seemed Seto was not the only one with an intelligent beast. Diabound’s snake head lashed forward, pointedly circling around the roaring head of the White Dragon and went directly for Seto’s abdomen.

The White Dragon lashed out with its claws, but Seto could not see the way it tore Diabound’s snake head clean off.

“Kaiba!” Atem roared. “Kaiba!”

He could hear Kujaku yell something from Atem’s other side. The White Dragon curled in on itself. It collapsed the ridge in its back, so Seto would have a flatter surface to fall against.

Seto could barely take in his vision of the battle anymore, but Atem’s voice was clear.

“Creature! White Dragon! I know you understand me. And I know you are more than what you appear.” Atem paused, probably to smile.

“I do not know where your true allegiance lies,” he continued, “but I know you have Seto’s best interests at heart.

“Flee!” he commanded. “Make sure he gets away from this safely.”

At this Seto jerked up, against the reins and the saddle and the prison of white scales.

“No!” he shouted. “Dragon! Stay!”

He could hear Atem sending Kujaku away, too. Without them, there would be no one to cover Atem, as he finished summoning Exodia.

The White Dragon paused, and Seto finally took it for what it was – understanding. And then there’s a horrible lurch and Seto was dragged up, high above the clouds, as the White Dragon flew for safety.

“No!” he screamed. “No! No! No! No! No!”

He pulled against the restraints, but the White Dragon wasn’t listening. It was carrying him, up and away, and Seto thought about Atem and unfinished duty and the Thief and Mokuba, as the feeling of betrayal sunk in his gut and bled out his wound. The White Dragon, his loyal servant, was betraying his orders. And the bitterness of that was the last thing that stung, as he passed out.

==

He awoke somewhere in a forest, with the evidence of a crash landing shown in the trees above his head. The White Dragon was surrounding him again, suffocating, with its tail pressed into his abdomen to stem the bleeding. Seto wondered if Diabound’s fangs were poisonous, if he had bled out the poison. He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

The White Dragon. It- no- She seemed to be awake.

Seto struggled weakly against her tail.

“Let- Let go!” he grit out.

The White Dragon let go. Although it pressed, one last time against his wound. The pressure of it sent pain spiralling through Seto’s torso. His vision blurred. He faltered.

But then he grit his teeth and crawled away, against the mossy ground. His hands scraped twigs.

“You left Atem to that thief!” he bit angrily. But that wasn’t all. “You- you went directly against my orders! What kind of servent-?!” He started again. The words weren’t coming to him. But he was angry his beast had capitulated to Atem’s orders, rather than his own.

“You listened to him!” Seto tried. “I won’t have a useless beast-”

He felt bad about that one. The White Dragon watched him worriedly. Her beady eyes focussed at the wound in his abdomen, rather than his face.

Seto fumed. The blood was pounding in his head.

“I won’t have you pretend to deceive me any longer!”

The White Dragon lunged forward at that moment. And Seto retreated in fear, but the dragon was faster. With an urgency, but also a keen gentleness, she pressed her curved snout against Seto’s face.

And Seto pretended it wasn’t quite intentional, when he pressed his cold lips into her.

The White Dragon was shining, and changing form. He didn’t see her silhouette, before blacking out again, but that was fine. He’d seen past her magic before, despite himself. He had already recognised her slim figure, and the long trail of white hair.

==

When he awoke again, she had bandaged his wound properly – pressed healing herbs into his side. She’d caught a pair of rabbits to eat, and started a fire. She shivered, still naked, and turned her body into the flames.

“Atem-!” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” the Girl said. “But probably he was captured. He’s too important to…”

The Girl trailed off, but Seto knew she was referring to execution.

“Kujaku,” he said next.

“I saw her flee off to the east,” the Girl said. “I don’t know if she got away… But her harpies and their pet and the Red Eyes, they were moving faster than their pursuers.”

Seto grumbled and bit at his lip.

The silence dragged out between them, as the Girl sat over him at the fire.

“What good are you to me?!” he asked next. “You were a failure of a beast! And now you’re just a scrawny girl!”

The Girl turned down to look at him. Her expression held no guile. Clearly, he could read the shifting emotions that passed over her face. Hurt. Concern. Kindness. Faith.

And that’s why he didn’t doubt it, when she met his eyes with a determination and will of steel that surpassed his own.

“You promised we’d find Mokuba,” she told him, firmly. “You promised we’d find Mokuba together.”