Chapter 115: The Seat of the Nest
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The underground chamber did not feel like a victory hall.
It felt like the inside of a beast that had been cut open and then forced to keep breathing.
Torches hissed against damp stone. Smoke crawled along the ceiling in lazy ribbons. The air stank of sweat, fear, and iron-tasting blood, layered over the older smells of cheap oil, rusted chains, and stale liquor that had soaked into the walls for years.
Bodies lay everywhere.
Not corpses. Not yet.
Men groaned on the floor like broken furniture. Some clutched ribs. Some curled around their knees. A few trembled so hard it looked like the stone itself was vibrating. Their eyes kept drifting to Sekhmet and then away, as if staring too long might invite the same fate.
Above them, wings shifted and rustled.
The rare bats had perched along the stone beams and broken pillars like living shadows. Their red eyes watched without blinking. The lesser blood bats swirled in lazy circles, then settled into clusters, hanging upside down from ceiling cracks like the room had grown a second set of teeth.
Bat Bat perched on Sekhmet’s shoulder in her bat form, small and round, her ears twitching constantly as if she was trying to listen to everyone’s thoughts at once. She was unusually quiet now, as if the earlier chaos had drained her mischief and replaced it with the serious concentration of a child who had seen adults become frightening.
Auri stood close, calm as ever, cloak settled over her wings. Her gaze tracked movement with cold discipline. She did not look like a servant girl. She looked like a blade disguised as one.
And in the center of it all, Raka stood.
He should have been shouting. He should have been roaring orders. He should have been cursing and promising revenge the way leaders did when their nest was threatened.
Instead, he moved like a man walking through a dream he could not wake from.
His back was straight. His jaw was clenched. His eyes were sharp, but the sharpness no longer aimed at Sekhmet. It aimed outward, scanning the room as if searching for threats to his new master rather than threats to himself.
When Sekhmet spoke, Raka reacted instantly.
When Sekhmet shifted his weight, Raka adjusted position like a guard dog.
The thugs noticed.
They noticed so hard it made their fear louder than their groans.
They had watched Raka beat Sekhmet into the wall. They had heard the crack of stone and the sound of Sekhmet coughing. They had felt the difference in the air, the heavy pressure of a chaos rank three leader who could crush a rank one like a bug.
Then, in a blink, everything had flipped.
Now Raka was standing beside Sekhmet like he belonged there.
The thugs could not understand it.
Not because they were stupid.
Because reality had rewritten itself without permission.
Raka raised his voice, and the men flinched.
"Move," he commanded.
His tone was the same old tone.
But the meaning was different.
He was not ordering them to rise and fight Sekhmet.
He was ordering them to crawl into line.
The surviving thugs dragged themselves toward the main hall, the larger chamber beyond the torture room. Some needed help standing. Some were pulled by collars. Others crawled, leaving smeared trails on the stone like snails made of shame.
The main hall was rough and ugly, but it had been built for gathering. Long stone benches lined the walls. A few broken tables sat in the center. Weapons hung from hooks. Chains swung lightly from ceiling rings. There was a raised area at the far end — less a stage and more a statement of hierarchy.
On that raised area sat a heavy stone seat.
Raka’s seat.
It was not carved with art. It was carved with threat. The back was tall, the arms thick, the surface stained dark from years of men bleeding nearby. A place where criminals had knelt and begged, where deals had been made with shaking hands, where punishments had been handed out for those who forgot who ruled the nest.
Raka approached the seat, then stopped.
He turned his head toward Sekhmet, and his throat moved like he swallowed something bitter.
"Master," Raka said, voice controlled, "your seat."
The thugs stared.
A few blinked like their eyes were broken.
One man’s mouth opened slightly, then shut again.
Another whispered, barely audible, "What."
Raka stepped aside and gestured with one hand, respectful, precise.
Sekhmet walked forward.
He did not rush. He did not swagger.
He simply moved like he belonged there because, in that moment, he did.
He climbed the small stone steps and sat down.
The seat was cold beneath him, colder than the walls. It pressed into his back and shoulders, heavy and unwelcoming. It was not comfortable.
But power rarely was.
Sekhmet rested one arm on the stone armrest and looked down at the gathered men.
Most were kneeling now. Some sat weakly. A few still tried to stand tall, but their legs shook too much to pretend.
Their faces were twisted with confusion and fear.
Their eyes kept flicking to Raka.
Then to Sekhmet.
Then back to Raka.
Their minds were trying to connect dots that had no lines.
Bat Bat leaned close to Sekhmet’s ear and whispered loudly, because subtlety had never once survived inside her brain.
"Master sit on a big rock," she said. "Master is king now?"
Sekhmet did not look at her.
"I am not a king," he replied quietly.
Bat Bat nodded as if that was acceptable.
"Okay," she whispered. "Master is a big fish."
Sekhmet’s eyelid twitched. He still refused to ask why everything was fish now. He looked at Raka.
"Gather them properly," Sekhmet said.
Raka’s body moved immediately. He stepped down into the hall, grabbed two kneeling men by the collars, and shoved them into a straighter line.
"Sit," Raka snapped.
The men obeyed instantly.
Raka moved through the group, reorganizing them like soldiers.