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The girls looked like they were about to cry.
Elena sighed.
Her anger softened just slightly, but her authority did not.
"He returned," she said quietly. "He came back from purgatory alive. Do you know what that means."
The tray girl nodded rapidly.
"It means he is strong."
Elena shook her head.
"It means he is tired," she corrected. "It means his mind has not fully come home yet, even if his body has."
Her gaze sharpened.
"Do not disturb him today," she ordered. "No questions. No gifts. No sneaking near his door to listen like you are spies for the City Lord."
The comb girl looked offended.
"We were not listening."
Elena lifted the broom a fraction.
The comb girl immediately became respectful again.
"Yes, Auntie Elena."
Elena pointed down the hall.
"Go to your work," she said. "Kitchen. Laundry. Courtyard. Anywhere except here."
The girls hesitated, clearly suffering.
"But what if he calls for us," the tray girl asked, voice hopeful.
Elena’s mouth twitched.
"If he calls," she said, "I will call you. Until then, pretend he is a sleeping dragon."
The flower girl blinked.
"Dragons are... cute when sleeping," she whispered.
Elena’s broom tapped the floor.
TAP.
The flower girl fled immediately.
The others scrambled after her, disappointed faces turning into hurried feet.
TapTapTapTap!
Elena watched them go, then turned her gaze toward Sekhmet’s door.
Her expression softened.
"You stubborn boy," she murmured. "Come home alive, then immediately become everyone’s problem."
She shook her head once, then walked away, broom in hand, muttering threats about chores and discipline that sounded suspiciously like love disguised as fear.
Hours passed.
Dawn House settled.
The fuss calmed.
The servants kept busy. The kitchen returned to its rhythm. Laundry piles marched like armies. The courtyard was swept until it looked like it had never met dirt.
Sekhmet remained inside.
He rested, as promised.
He ate.
He drank water even though it did nothing for the hunger that lived deeper than thirst.
He stared at his status window until the numbers stopped feeling like lies.
He listened to Bat Bat chatter and realized, with mild horror, that the bat had learned to gossip.
"Girls outside," Bat Bat whispered at one point. "Many girl."
Sekhmet sighed.
"They were told to leave."
Bat Bat nodded solemnly.
"They leave," it said, then added, "They come back."
Sekhmet stared.
"You do not know that," he said.
Bat Bat blinked.
"I scout," it replied.
Sekhmet rubbed his temples.
"Stop scouting my servants."
Bat Bat puffed up.
"Scouting is my job," it declared, then added in a quieter voice, "Also funny."
Sekhmet did not answer.
Because the truth was, his mind was not calm at all.
The city’s walls did not remove his hunger.
Civilization did not fix the bloodlust creeping under his skin like a second heartbeat.
Ba - dum... Ba - dum...
Not his heart.
The hunger.
It returned again as the sun fell and night approached.
It returned with a quiet cruelty.
By evening, he could feel it in his throat. The heat. A dryness. A longing that no amount of bread could satisfy.
He sat on his bed with his hands folded, trying to breathe slowly, trying to pretend he was normal.
He failed.
"If I do not feed, he thought, I will lose control in my own house."
That was unacceptable.
Not with servants around.
Not with Elena.
Not with Lily possibly returning.
Not with the city full of people who did not deserve to become accidents.
He needed a place where blood belonged to violence.
A place where feeding would not be a crime against innocence.
His mind reached for an old memory.
The underground market.
A place Uncle Ben had taken him once when he was ten. Sekhmet barely remembered details. He mostly remembered the smell of spices, metal, smoke, and fear disguised as bargaining.
He remembered Uncle Ben’s hand on his shoulder, heavy and warning.
"Do not stare," Uncle Ben had said.
"Why," Sekhmet had asked.
"Because if you stare," Uncle Ben replied, "someone will decide you are worth selling."
Sekhmet smiled faintly at the memory.
"Now let them try."
The thought was cold, and it alarmed him how easily it came.
Night deepened.
The house quieted.
The servants went to sleep.
Lanterns dimmed.
Dawn House became still.
That was when Sekhmet moved.
He dressed in dark clothing, pulling the nightmare-grade coat over his shoulders. He left Bat Bat in the room for half a second—then paused.
Bat Bat stared at him.
"You go," Bat Bat said.
Sekhmet narrowed his eyes.
"How do you know?"
Bat Bat lifted its tiny chin.
"I smell hunger," it said proudly.
Sekhmet exhaled.
"Fine," he muttered. "But you follow my orders. No pee. I am going to the underground market."
Bat Bat looked personally attacked.
"No pee," it repeated, offended. "In underground. I pee only if tactical."
Sekhmet stared at it.
"That sentence is wrong in many ways," he said.
Bat Bat flapped onto his shoulder anyway.
"Let’s go," it said, cheerful like this was a fun outing.
Sekhmet left his room silently.
The corridors of Dawn House were dark, but familiar. He moved like a shadow, stepping past sleeping guards without waking them. His body was too light now. Too controlled. He could have walked through a battlefield without making sound.
He slipped out into the courtyard.
Cold air greeted him.
Woooo...
The city at night was different. Less noise, more whispers. Less light, more watchful eyes.
Sekhmet moved along rooftops and narrow alleys, guided by instinct and old memory. He did not want anyone to notice where he was going. Not yet.
Bat Bat sat on his shoulder like a red badge, hard to hide, but the night helped. The bat tucked its wings tight and stayed quiet, surprisingly disciplined.
They reached a narrow street behind an abandoned spice warehouse.
There was a stone door there.
Old.
Unmarked.
Two men stood in front of it.
They were not guards.
They were the type of men who acted like guards because it gave them permission to be cruel.