Although spring had swept across most of the Crossing, it was still cold on the Peak. Near the top of the mountain there were still patches of snow and Impa, being a heavier horse than most with more hair to shed from her winter coat, had retreated to the height of the mountain for the day. It was her favorite spot and she perched on a rather precarious outcropping as she stared out across the island. Her domain. Her kingdom? No, never. A mare cannot own territory, she reminded herself, and her mental voice was scathing. She remembered the way her father avoided the subject of ruling, how he never taught her that a lead mare could do just as much good for the herd as a stallion, never taught her that men, the breeders, the arrogant and unrepentant assholes who never had to fear for the safety of their bodies would forever rank higher than her on the social ladder.

But not here. Not on her mountain. Here, on the Peak, Impa looked up to no one and could pretend she oversaw all. The snort she uttered was bitter, and soon she turned away from the view and began her descent. She had to find Jezibelle, and soon, but the scent of another horse distracted her once more from her plans to seek out her sister. There seemed to be a sudden influx of mares on the mountain face, she thought as she picked her way through small snowdrifts. Not that Impa was complaining, of course— she was simply used to this pattern of a sudden wave of mares sweeping up the Peak only to withdraw like the tide. No one ever stuck around for long, it seemed. Just her.

The black draft mare tilted her head to the left and scanned the landscape and— there, hair flipping in the brisk wind, was a mare almost as pale as the snow itself. She looked like a shadow on a snowbank and Impa paused, one forehoof raised as her nostrils flared to test the wind again. The scent was still there, stronger now that she was closer, and so she continued forward until she was a horse-length away from the mare.

When she was growing up, after Kisei had dumped her in the Arch without apology or explanation, Impa’s self-esteem had plummeted to the point where she viewed her own body as ugly and disdainful and wrong. None of it was true and it had taken her a lot of work to rise above such negative thoughts, and nowadays she hardly devoted much mental capacity to such shallow thoughts. But the mare before her was so slender, so delicately composed of skin wrapped snugly over muscle that the draft mare could not help but feel a twinge of envy. If only she were as petite: perhaps men would pay attention to her, and underestimate the strength that lay beneath her shapely skin.

The feeling passed —Impa could do nothing to change how she was built— and the black mare shook out her mane with a low snort. It surprised her to see someone else so far up the mountain when it was still so cold, especially one who was clearly not built for places where snow flourished, and especially someone who was a newcomer to the Peak. “I thought you were a ghost when I saw you,” she said. Her ears twitched. She hadn’t meant to say that. Too late to take it back. Impa plowed on with her usual diplomatic grace: a steady, calm voice with warmth in her tone. “If your name doesn’t have something to do with snow wraiths, I’m going to be surprised. You blend in very well up here among the stones and snow.”