The air was cold high up on the Peak. Autumn was drawing to an early close, it seemed, and the sharp gusts of wind blew right through Impa’s heavy feathers and slowly-thickening coat. As always, the mare with white ivy climbing across her hindquarters was eager for winter. It was a brisk season that energized her, whereas the summer’s heat made her feel sluggish. The day was just beginning. Impa had climbed toward the summit to greet the sun, something she hadn’t done since she was a filly. It seemed like a fitting thing to do, now that she was certain her father had truly abandoned the islands. Someone should give each day a proper welcome, and Impa had begun to sleep better knowing that it was being done.

With a final glance at the bright horizon, the draft mare turned and made her way slowly down the mountainside. There was much to be done, and she was behind. Impa’s year-long absence had been, in retrospect, a rather useless venture. She did not discover anything about her family’s whereabouts, and when she returned to the Peak she did not feel right stepping back into her former position immediately. No true Prime Minister would have disappeared as she had. Putting aside her guilt, for the time being, Impa paid attention to where she was placing her feet and let her thoughts drift to inconsequential things like where she wanted to graze for the day or what Mouse was up to.

Impa came to a halt on a level part of the mountain, on a field that seemed popular with the Peak mares, and dropped her head to graze. Her left side was aimed at the field, allowing her to stare out at the empty slope to her right while presenting her blind side to whichever of her sisters might be eating on the same level of the Peak as her. For a time she was content with this, eating in peace while the morning sun rose above the distant line of the horizon, but once the edge of her hunger was satisfied Impa felt the need for company. Specifically for the company of the mare who was interested in donning the role of General. Impa lifted her head and twisted her ears toward the field, looking for pale and gold-washed body of Irvosat. They hadn’t really spoken to one another, and Impa was curious as to where the other mare’s interests lay in regards to the Peak.

Locating the mare did not take long, and Impa moved with long, sure strides to bring herself within companionable distance of the other mare. “Good morning,” she said by way of greeting, her voice low as if to preserve the quiet of the still-waking world. “My name is Impa.” She cocked a hind hoof on its tip and tilted her head just a bit to eyeball the patchy, cream-and-copper-colored mare. When she spoke again, it was with a straightforward question: “As General, what would be your goal for this sisterhood?”

Impa did not care for small talk.