Nephthys had no idea how to make money out of violence so she said nothing. She was no stranger to violence - the people of Kemet had spoken of her as the fiery breath that protected the Pharaoh and destroyed all things that would come against him. For those she loved, Nephthys was capable of great violence and fury. But she wasn't Set; she didn't revel in it.
Set's sudden words cut her and she couldn't stop that wounded expression from flashing across her features for just a moment. She forced it down, buried it and set her jaw, schooled herself into a picture of blankness. He couldn't hurt her if she didn't allow it to show. That was what she told herself.
There was a part of her though that wanted to beg. Thousands of years ago she had done that. She had once fallen to her knees in front of him and told him how sorry she was, but she couldn't do it again. Times had changed and myths had shifted and she could no longer remember who she was, let alone who he was supposed to be. Their story was twisted, poisonous vines choking everything in their path.
When she spoke her voice was monotone and her eyes were downcast. "Why am I here?"