For many nights, Hotep had pondered his dream and the strange gift of Osiris within it. Foremostly, but then also the red blood of Khonsu in the sky, the sick rot of Apep's venom in the fog, the hieroglyphs hidden in ocean waves, and the vision — the lifting of him to some new place, where he spoke with strangers and had been given a blessing.

The last was true, purest magic, Hotep knew. For he kept the seed now in the little nest his dormouse friend Rakhufu had woven, safe from prying eyes and greedy scavengers. The rest had been sent to bloom in better climes, but of their success, he had received no word and so knew nothing. The fate of them could not go on, undetermined.

And, frankly, neither could the fate of Hotep.

Signs and prophecies, omens, offerings. He walked between worlds, unsure of his place in either. Much time and incense had been spent these restless evenings, considering how to answer Osiris.

With Sitamun restored to waking world, and camp turning restless eyes back South in the aftermath of a tumultuous campaign, he thought he could stay this decision no longer. The revelation must be made known to those he served, here at this crossroads. And he must hope and pray that the Father of Horus moved his superiors, as well, to accept it. Setemhotep wished never to be caught between the will of two Divines again.

He bowed, and made his obeisances, and waited to be called to speak.