Diaphanous silks swirl as her dancing body undulates in ecstatic trance. The petitioner, crowned, refuses to prostrate himself. Attending priests mutter but don’t intervene.
Strange sounds erupt from the oracle, scribes taking notes. They translate:
A board
Aboard
Abort
Rage flashes across his face. “Tell that bitch her brother commands her obedience! I want victory!”
She collapses, attendants rush to her inert form. She whispers: “Tell that overly familiar dog that pride will be his ruin. He cannot command the future. And his regard, or disregard, of me has been noted by the gods. He shall reap what’s been sown.”
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