The knowledge that his daughter had abandoned him still grumbled like boiling water in his gut. Even if she had left him in the care of Sterre rather than alone and helpless, and even if she had been planning to leave him anyway to make a new life for herself, knowing she had not sought him out once since the day she’d thrown a tantrum and fled had been on Het Vuur’s mind often.

Yet here he was now, clinging close to Sterre’s side as they wove through the trees in the lowest slopes of the peak. Winter was nippier here than it was down in the commons, but as long as it was not so cold to remind him of Tinuvel, Het Vuur would cope just fine.

Inka had never told him where she was going, but once he had mulled it over, it could not have been more obvious. Years ago he would have had to have been dragged kicking and screaming into the Vulcan sanctuary, as if breathing the same air as them would have replaced his testosterone with estrogen. But now that Het Vuur was old, homeless, and disabled, it was by far the more preferable option to the Lagoon (where no doubt he and Sterre would have been subject to much taunting and harrassment). Besides, in his mind the Lagoon seemed the obvious lurking spot for Rook, and Het Vuur had no desire to see his son again any time in the future.

It had occurred to him briefly that – even if Inka resided among the Vulcans – he would be unwelcome here, but he had shelved the thought quickly, knowing that Sterre and his daughter (the former especially) would be able to handle whatever temperamental women the Peak had to throw his way.

As they strolled, Het Vuur hung his head low so that his nose bumped against Sterre’s hip with each stride, and he thought back to when he had suggested the peak as their next destination. “Inka will give us a place to stay,” he had said, neglecting entirely that he was not even sure she would be here – and, knowing how poorly Sterre got on with other mares, he had not expected for her to agree, but agree she had. Either time has changed us more than we know, or her pity for me knows no bounds.

He cared little, either way. In the days since his foray with Soljor, Het Vuur had found that apathy was strangely freeing.

“Will you describe it to me?” he murmured, angling his head to lightly scrape his teeth against Sterre’s barrel.