Khepri gaze snapped back to him, his expression remained calm, like stone—but beneath the surface, the Earth itself threatened to fracture.
Alex wasn't shouting. There was no hatred in his tone. No mocking laughter. No bloodthirst. Just truth—spoken with a flatness that made it feel like judgment, not vengeance.
As Khepri narrowed his eyes, something glinted in the boy's hand.
Two objects.
No… two heads.
The moment they left his grip and was thrown toward him, the illusion of stillness shattered.
They thudded to a stop at as they stayed landed on an earth platform created by Khepri.
One bloodied. One bruised. Both unmistakable.
Menkhaura.
Merit.
His first son—and his third daughter, dead. Reduced to trophies in the hands of a stranger who bore the face of a Thunder Clan exile.
Khepri didn't move. Not a twitch. His face was cold. Impassive.
But his jaw tightened.
And his heart burned.
