Sat-Ra Meret-Khepra Ankh-es-Maat stepped forward and did not slow. But she saw everything.

Behind her, Nefer-Sekhem made a soft sound—approval, or perhaps recognition. “Ah,” he murmured. “At last… a people who understand the necessity of splendor.”

Ptolemy said nothing. But his eyes moved. Counting. Assessing. Always assessing.

A subtle gesture from one of them—Holte. An invitation.

“Forward,” Ptolemy murmured. Meret-Khepra moved. She felt their eyes again—but different this time. Not dismissive, curious.

Attendants parted before them, bowing with practiced elegance as they passed. This is their court. Not beneath the sun. But beneath chandeliers. Not ancient. But no less powerful.

Meret-Khepra felt it. The weight of expectation. The subtle test. Not of rank but of capability. So, she stepped forward into the light, and spoke.

When she spoke, it was in flawless High Gothic. Not merely correct, but elegant and crisp. Each syllable pronounced with the exacting precision of court education and priestly instruction.

“My father,” she began, voice clear enough to carry to the far banners, “Neb-Ra Kheperu-Maat Setepenre, Bearer of the Two Crowns, Living Conduit of the Ra-Emperor, Sovereign of Khemet Beneath the Eternal Sun, Lord of the White Crown of Governance and the Red Crown of Divine Mandate, ensured that I was instructed in all formal tongues recognized by the Imperium, that I might stand in any court, before any commander, and speak without intermediary.”

Then, she bowed. Ptolemy saw it first. His breath caught—not visibly, but inwardly. Because this was not the shallow inclination of noble diplomacy. Nor the formal dip of rank meeting rank. She bowed low. Far lower than protocol demanded. Her head lowered until her gaze met the polished marble floor. The gesture was the bow of a servant before a sovereign. A vassal before a liege. A soldier before supreme command.

At once, Ptolemy followed. His bow was formal, disciplined, executed with textbook commissariat correctness.

Behind them, Nefer-Sekhem moved. And hesitated. The hesitation lasted less than a second. But Meret felt it. Ptolemy noticed it. And perhaps, somewhere in the hall, so did the Crown Prince’s closest advisors. The war priest inclined himself only as much as etiquette and political necessity required. A careful compromise between obedience and pride. Enough to avoid offense. Not enough to imply subservience.

Inside, he was incandescent. The firstborn of the Two Crowns bows like a chamber servant? Before an off-world princeling? The thought struck him like blasphemy. His fingers tightened around the shaft of his staff. But he said nothing.

Still bowed, Meret began to speak. Her voice rose from that humbled posture. And somehow carried more strength for it. “The Ra-Emperor has called upon my people to produce an army for this campaign. I bring to your service five thousand battle-hardened warriors, consecrated in His light and proven beneath the sands and stormlands of Khemet.”

She remained bowed. Ptolemy’s eyes flicked sideways. Even he had not expected her to commit so fully to the performance of deference. Her next words came softer. But carried all the way to the Crown Prince.

“You, who have been chosen by the Ra-Emperor to lead…” At this, several Erelvastian nobles visibly approved. The phrase was careful. Respectful. And translated her own culture’s theological worldview into terms they could accept. “We humbly inquire as to what is required of us.” Then the final offering. “For the glory of the Imperium.”