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The mountain was full of memories, to be sure. Nekharat could feel them, deep inside her bones they weighed heavy like lead and stone. She came here initially for the sake of discovery and nothing more; yet after several weeks she remained, keeping mostly to herself—observing and analyzing the comings and goings of mares who surely had noticed her but said nothing. Perhaps they waited for her the way flower buds waited until spring to bloom, patiently, when their strength was at its peak.

She found the arrival of the stallions the most curious—there were so many of them, sulking about at the base of the mountain, not daring to speak other than the occasional groan of discontent. The red mare does not fully understand why they are all here, but she assumed they are captives. She wondered silently to herself why. What justice did this serve? With every day came more questions without apparent answers.

On this day, another group arrived—mares and a stallion alike, and she watched from some distance in the tall grass beside the stream, more questions filling her mind. And at once, like a glass overfull she came trickling out of the cracks in the mountain, meandering her way closer and closer until she stood within earshot of the group, including a formidable bay mare who called herself Wasp.

As the introductions continued, Nekharat at once felt intrusive, as though she had suddenly stumbled upon some diplomatic meeting to which she was not invited. Her ears flicked back sheepishly and she turned her head back in the direction she came, considering retreat. But at least one of them had most certainly seen her by now, and her presence would be called into question.

NEKHARAT