The air within the great hall of the Temple of Thá-Hurekhtr still trembled with the echoes of the recent battle. Golden rays of sunlight pierced through the glass dome like blades of liquid fire, slicing across the immense columns and reflecting off the hieroglyphs that narrated the eternal glory of the Sun God and the other deities.
The heavy scent of myrrh incense and sacred oil lingered in the air. The elves had departed, taking their accumulated hatred with them. Now only the figures in the center of the hypostyle hall remained. Neftraya walked toward Kharvathar, who observed her in silence. The priestess noticed the subtle changes: his face appeared more "human" than before.
"We hope that with this, you understand our position." Her pupils dilated as she studied him. For Neftraya, this was a tremendous opportunity—an opportunity to shape her destiny.
"And what position would that be?" Kharvathar asked, glancing between her and Uras. For a moment he had forgotten the pharaoh's presence, but the man's action in expelling the elf had piqued the dragon's curiosity. "What has changed?" Beyond the faint ridge above his eyes—Neftraya could have sworn fine fur was beginning to sprout there.
"By expelling the elf and preventing him from killing you, I have driven our races farther apart than ever before." The pharaoh advanced cautiously. He was now clad in immaculate white linen embroidered with threads of gold and lapis lazuli, a blue-and-gold nemes crowning his head like a living crown of serpents. He stood erect upon the elevated path. Religious vestments retrieved from the temple itself. Uras wished to project the proper image of power—both when he banished the elf and now in this dialogue with the creature before him.
"He would not have killed me, human," Kharvathar objected, his tone more serious than furious.
"Indeed!" Neftraya interjected quickly. "What the Lord of Namar-Kheph means is that we are now free from the tyranny of the elves—and we negotiate from a position of alliance." She opened her hands in a gesture of servitude, the wide sleeves of her white-and-purple robe nearly brushing the floor. Uras remained upright, staring directly at the creature. He understood that the gods would punish him if he had made the wrong choice—so he would face it head-on, as a pharaoh should.
"So you want me—the one who came to kill you—to take you as servants and spare you." Kharvathar stated it plainly. He noticed that, before, he would have answered with flames and roars. Now his mind saw logic in it. Moreover, he concluded that the woman could be useful in helping him reclaim his original form. His body felt more relaxed.
"The elves were your greatest enemies, were they not? That is what the stories say. What could we humans possibly do against your magnificence? Not much before—and not much now." Neftraya reasoned, stepping slightly closer—like someone approaching a wild animal without startling it.
Uras'Diptsur remembered the red-iron arrows and the black sandy khopesh. But only the tip had worked. "If we had known…"' The pharaoh thought, remaining in place. One of his soldiers brought the scepter, crafted right there on the temple altar.
"Yes, they were—and still are." The dragon's memories also showed humans—most of them fleeting deaths. Others were stranger recollections, especially the one etched when he had seen Neftraya during the assault on the city. "So this means we have a common enemy." It was a simple conclusion for the dragon. Somehow, he found it… amusing.
The privileged priestess. The pharaoh, meanwhile, still feared where this path might lead, but the elves' centuries of seclusion from humans had been too much for him. He spoke: "We understand faithfully that your change serves a greater purpose. You have become like us. That means you can be one of us."
"Or one who commands us," Neftraya added. The nearby soldiers murmured quietly. They followed the pharaoh—the son of God—not this thing. Uras glanced at Neftraya; he did not know exactly where she was leading, but he intended to hold firm to his power—even if it meant death.
"As stated: an alliance," the pharaoh affirmed lightly. Kharvathar absorbed it; his mind noted the situation clearly.
"What say you, Lord Kharvathar? Can you recognize the opportunity? We know where the elves hide and how to reach them. With our help, your original form will return—and the elves will fall beneath your fire." Neftraya's posture was calm and succinct, speaking with the certainty of one who sees deeper into the river where light cannot reach. Somehow, Kharvathar perceived it.
"I will maintain my previous decision," the dragon-human declared, raising his voice. "The God of men caused my change." He fixed his gaze on Uras. "And the power of the woman was the intermediary of my desolation." He lifted his eyes to Neftraya.
"Thus, until my original form is restored to me, I will keep you alive—while you also tell me where the elves reside."
"And after that?" the pharaoh asked.
Kharvathar's lips—now well-formed and brown—curved into a subtle, distinctly human smile. Then he answered:
"Of the future I can say nothing beyond the guarantee of my word's power." He walked, turning his back on the two and gazing out from the temple. The robes the priestess's servants had draped over him swayed gently.
Neftraya returned the smile with greater pleasure, inclining her head slightly.
"Very well," Uras said, gripping the scepter. He turned to the soldiers present: "Tell those in the shelters to emerge, and order the return of those who fled the city. Send messages to all my domains—the glory of the pharaoh must once again be praised, for the evil that assailed us has been defeated; the humans have triumphed."
The pharaoh turned to the priestess and concluded:
"And you, go quickly to Setarek. Do not let my son die."
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