It was near midnight, and overhead there loomed a vast canopy of star-studded blackness. Orhan had been poised on the brink of sleep for a few hours now, with his eyelids heavy and his chin dipping low, but that final step into complete unconsciousness had eluded him thus far. His mind was spinning, but not from light-headedness; memories and musings and worries danced clumsily through his brain like a troupe of amateur acrobats, making his blood sing with adrenaline. Every so often he looked up to watch Vesti sleep, for lack of something better to do, and with his eyes traced the shape of her moonlit mane tumbling over her neck.

His doubt and hope clawed at each other, fanning the flames of his discomfort.

It was then he knew he must obey the itch in his muscles and expend this surplus energy somehow, if he was to enjoy any sleep at all tonight. Had it been physical energy burning within him, he might have taken flight and soared over the nighttime dunes until he was lathered and panting. But this was a different sort of problem altogether. He needed to talk to someone.

In near silence, the young stallion crept around the bend of the oasis to where the slim black shadow that was El Aran lingered. If he knew her at all, she was not likely to be very deeply asleep, but even so – to avoid scaring her – he blew gently to announce his presence and then, ever so lightly, lipped at the taut warmth of her shoulder. “Ana,” he whispered, and leaned into her. “Can we talk?”