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Sekhmet reached the Dawn House gate with the same calm face he used in the market, in the alley, in every place where showing weakness invited teeth. The streetlamps behind him threw long shadows across the stone path, and the iron bars of the gate looked almost gentle from a distance.
Up close, the gate was still a warning.
Sekhmet lifted a hand and knocked, once, controlled.
A guard inside opened the small viewing slit, then froze when he recognized the silhouette.
"Young master," the guard said quickly, voice turning respectful in a heartbeat.
The gate began to open. The hinges groaned, old metal complaining about being asked to move in a world that never rested.
Sekhmet stepped in.
The courtyard greeted him with the familiar smell of trimmed plants, damp stone, and old money trying to pretend it was not stressed. Lanterns glowed warm along the walkway. A servant in the far corner paused mid sweep and bowed so hard it looked like his spine might crack in protest.
