Her back was to the approaching mazoi, where the twin shadows of his crown reached forth in a line beneath him, and Ra beaming above. So fixated on catching her breath and with the desire to resume the lesson, Aiesha did not immediately notice the growing loom of him until it was too late, and she caught the final drumming of his hooves upon the stone; then, turning sharply, she was faced with —

Nakhtmin, a name she had yet to attribute to a face, but it could be no other. Ashait had spoken of him. Word traveled around the training grounds of the oryx, and the nebet was at once taken by the man's painted face, and head scythes, and sheer size; all of this, intimidating.

Ah, hello, sir. She was still catching her breath, either from the earlier exercise or his inherent machismo.