Every sacrifice had to mean something.

Amenemhat told it to Kesi when he requested for her to bring a snake from the circus. But, what would a meaningful sacrifice mean for the ringmaster himself? The assets the circus held were, perhaps, the closest thing. But, the ringmaster was detached from those assets. They belonged foremost to his circus, and he was the man best suited to deciding how those assets were distributed. Of course he possessed his wealth, shared in the fortunes of the circus, but in the end, wealth was a resource. No, the avarice of Amenemhat of the Tempest of Set was control. The idea of holding all of the circus, its membership, and those who felt the same flare of loyalty for place as he... the concept of wrangling them in the snare of his machinations...

That was his craving above all else.

Amenemhat prepared for his voyage to the Temple of Set far into the previous evening. With a serum concocted by the doctor to render the slaves passive, he'd wrought a slave boy, surely no older than the age of 16, into a deep slumber. With save for a flickering candle to light the tent, Amenemhat broke skin, carefully forming a curved line. Crimson bloomed as the welling of blood followed the carving path of the tool, deep enough that with a second run through, deep scars would mark the servant forever. The distinctive form of the bestial form of the God of Chaos stared back at Amenemhat. A second run through severed the flesh deeper still, blood trickling along the flesh of the boy's back and onto makeshift bed that he looked the boy over on.

Satisfied with the work done, Amenemhat moved on to the next, and a third as the path of the moon met its end and the rising sun began to cover over the Egyptian sands outside of Cairo. Three foreigners, marked for the God of Chaos, lay prone, given over to Rekhmire to 'tend' to. With their tongues severed at the median, they'd be unable to talk and betray their insights into the circus itself. Assets were the norm, and he'd satisfy the necessity to earn the good graces of the Temple while he offered the truest sacrifice he could give to the God.

Myself.

Dark rings languished beneath his eyelids, more of his ribs visible than the norm as a night without nourishment and sleep took from the ringmaster some of the grandeur that he kept. Appearances were tantamount to the circus' success, and he ensured that he was in a peak condition for every show. But, this was different. For the God of Chaos, he'd give everything, ever seeking the favour of the deity that his grandfather besought patronage from.

As the sun rose higher into the sky, Amenemhat cleaned the blood from his blade, having long left it to Rekhmire to stitch the gaping wounds in the servants' gagged mouths.

The line of stubble did not escape Amenemhat's notice as he looked into the bronze mirrored dish he held to his face. He'd been far too occupied to give the time to shave. Two days and already the ragged visage of a beggar lived on his features. He remedied the issue quickly enough, but the disheveled look of a man without sleep did not escape him. Throwing the shawl over his shoulders, he'd have the gifted slaves donning a similar apparel as the inner circle of the Tempest of Set traveled together. Tied together in a line by the ankle, Hamidi led them on with a rope, their loads light but showing obvious signs of wear as their aggravated injuries stifled their progress.

Amenemhat left it to Hamidi to ensure they did as commanded, each carrying with them something for the temple. One held finely wrought mead and other foods meant to delight the God's tastes. The second and third together carried a tithe from the circus' profits, to sustain the Temple itself that the God seemed to favour, each holding one of the handles to a modestly sized chest.

The ringmaster paid little mind to his servants, his mind hazy, his eyesight just a tinge blurred.

A day and a half without sleep is nothing, he ensured himself, keeping a shallow smile upon his lips as the group passed through the Temple's threshold. Amenemhat didn't announce himself or the arrival of the circus about. There was no need for acknowledgement now.

"Hamidi, get someone's attention so they can receive the offerings. No one else need be involved," he clarified. While Amenemhat lived in a perpetual cycle of spectacle and attention-mongering, in this moment, there was little fuss to be made.

"We should go to Nephthys' temple soon, too."

She's right.

Amenemhat wasn't pleased at the notion of being out for longer than needed, but if one patron was to be honoured, so too was the other.

"We'll need to provide an additional offering if we do. Do you have ideas in mind?" he asked, just before he shifted his attention to the approaching temple priest.

"Take it all. The Temple has our regards."

When Feiyan couldn’t sleep, she often walked the circus grounds. Lit by the silvery glow of the moon, the night was beautiful, quiet, and peaceful. She enjoyed being alone with her thoughts, especially after she had the strange dream. She was running over a curved bridge in a beautiful garden, while petals of flowering pink trees rained down upon her. Without any warning, a snakelike dragon loomed in front of her and she screamed.

Feiyan had awakened, sitting up in her room of the tent she shared with her sister. The tent was partitioned into several sections, and their sleeping areas were on opposite sides, giving them privacy. This was a good thing, because Lihua didn’t approve of her bringing her married lovers to the tent. The handsome man sleeping beside her was a wealthy jeweler who had gifted her with a chest full of jewelry made from precious gems. He couldn’t risk taking her to his own house, so he had spent the night with her.

He was lying on his back snoring lightly when she left the tent. The warm air wafted over her nude body and her feet sank into the sand as she wandered toward the edge of the encampment, lost in thought. What did that dream mean and why did she have it so frequently? Why did it always disturb her? The dragon that scared her was made of gold and sparkled in the sunlight. Why had she been afraid of it?

Hmmm, that's odd. A candle was flickering in a tent she had never noticed before. Were two of the performers having a tryst? Unable to resist a possible source of blackmail, Feiyan moved toward it, as silent as a cat. Peeking inside, her eyes widened at the sight before her. The metallic scent of blood was powerful, horrifying and exciting her at the same time. Three slave boys lay face down on pallets. The first one had a freshly carved image of Set on his back. Bright red blood oozed from his wounds, pooling in a small puddle on the floor. Amenemhat was bent over the second slave and she saw the glint of a knife in his hand.

Concealing herself in shadow, she stepped inside the tent so that she could get a better look. The ringmaster was carving the same image into the back of the second boy. Rekhmire was there too. He had probably drugged them.

Feiyan watched, fascinated, as the boy’s flesh parted with each deep slash of the knife, blood flowing from either side. The form slowly took shape, reinforced with deeper gashes. It was so gloriously brutal. How she wished she could assist Amenemhat with his task. She imagined herself beside him, engraving patterns into supple skin.

Why, she wondered, was he doing it, and why tonight? What was he going to do with the slaves when he was done with them? The wounds would not kill them. There must be some method to his very compelling madness and she was determined to find out what it was. The sun was beginning to rise as she slipped away and back to her tent. Usually she enjoyed admiring the colors splashing across the sky, but she didn’t have time for that now.

Her lover was still sprawled on the bed. Dressing quietly in a nondescript linen kalisaris she braided her long black hair and coiled it atop her head. Grabbing an equally plain shawl, she wrapped it around her head and shoulders, concealing her face. She then went back and hid in a nearby supply tent.

At length, Amenemhat returned with Hamidi and entered the tent. The ringmaster looked haggard, as if he had not slept for days. Soon the three mutilated slaves filed out, tied together at the ankles. Feiyan followed discreetly as they joined several other members of the circus and left the encampment, traveling to the Tempest of Set.

She was glad that she had concealed her face. With her exotic features, it was impossible to blend into a crowd. People stared at her wherever she went. Why, she wondered, had she not been invited to worship at the temple with them? Why were only these particular performers included? Well, she would find out that too.

Passing the formidable guards, she resisted the urge to wink saucily at them just to see if she could get a reaction. If she did that, her identity might be revealed. The others might not notice, but she couldn’t take that risk, not if she wanted to find out what they were up to.

She couldn’t hear what Amenemhat said to the priests, but it appeared that the boys were an offering to Set. What would be done with them? Would they be sacrificed? Excitement trilled through her veins at the very thought. Standing inconspicuously behind a column where she had a good view, she wondered what the group was going to do next.

Miri would never turn down an opportunity to pray. The gods whispered sweet and stinging words in her ears like an ever-flowing river, and she often whispered back. But there was something special in a temple. An overwhelming sense of awe, the clear knowledge that she was nothing. Everyone was nothing. And so she walked with her sister, feeling the older girl’s excitement. Everyone’s excitement and piety. It was endearing, really, that any of them thought @set truly cared about their lives. At the same time, that was what made the temple visit necessary. Chaos, power, darkness. Set was the least predictable voice in her head, the rumbling, laughing, taunting voice that often invaded her dreams. He praised Amenemhat, yes, but he often played tricks on Miri, too, twisting her sleeping consciousness to his will. He did not listen to her when she whispered back. The temple was the only way.

Miri barely felt her sister move away, towards Kesi. The fortune teller stopped in her tracks for a moment, watching her little family sway excitedly with something akin to affection in her eyes. They did make for a beautiful, eclectic little group. So small, and yet they were everything to her. They approached the temple together, with Miri bringing up the rear, wanting to see her family safely inside like a shepherd. Amenemhat was the real leader, of course, but Miri felt that this was her domain. Her responsibility to guide them through the motions. She listened to Amenemhat speak with the priests in silence, thoughts broken only by the murmuring of the gods and the quiet voices of her family.

Each time she approached a temple, the other gods would seem to dim in deference. That was another aspect of temple worship that Miri loved. It was strange, yes, whenever the near-constant buzz faded. But it was in these moments that Miri found the most clarity, the most peace. Her own soul started to buzz with excitement; soon, she would have that infinite moment once more. Miri stepped forward again to join Raziya and Kesi, silently slipping her hand back into her sister’s. There were few people allowed to touch her, few whose contact would not send her mind into sensory overload. Raziya acted had a calming effect instead. Soon, little one, came @set’s rumbling laughter, but the energy continued to build in her stomach.