Faolain had begun to gain a subtle sense of confidence in the past few weeks. She was learning, certainly about leadership but also about herself. She had begun to look back on her past in a new light, and though much of her core remained the same, the outer shell that had encased her began to soften just slightly. Her life had been lived without connection to another; a self-imposed solitude even in the presence of others. Even now she did not believe she could ever open up to someone the way she had with Rivaini and Iscariot, though she was beginning to open to Çiçek too. Part of it was simply denial, and force of habit, but part of her still just struggled to believe that her bonds with the siblings were real. She was not skeptical for lack of reassurance from them, and in fact the trio spent most of their time together, more often now accompanied by Çiçek’s sunshine. But it still felt new, almost like a dream to Faolain. She hoped she did not wake up.

Despite finding the majority of her comfort in the presence of her small family, Faolain still made time to be alone. At the highest point of the Ridge, she watched the shores of her home, both for the beauty of the sea crashing up against the white sand and the cliffsides, and for simple surveillance. She knew the others watched the borders as well; nothing seemed to enter the Ridge unnoticed by someone. It made her proud every time Rivaini spotted a stranger and rushed to address them. The Ridge had open borders, but certainly not blind ones.

This time, it was Faolain herself who spotted the newcomer: a stallion with a pale mane and two-toned coat, kneeling in the sand. The black mare watched him from atop her perch, head hovering over the edge of the cliff in the open air as her dark gaze fell on the sands far below. There was no way of knowing so early on, but she did not think he would be dangerous; even from here, she could see exhaustion in his posture. Faolain stayed where she was as the dun stallion made his way inland. She knew generally where everyone was, even Siobhan’s young daughters, and no one was far. Faolain may have isolated herself, but she had not removed herself completely.

When she did hear the approaching footfalls of the stranger, Faolain turned away from the cliff’s edge to face the herd once more, a short distance away through the tangled jungle. She could sense no alarm from her herd, nor hear any aggression in the voice of the stranger, so she let him approach, watching the massive leaves part as he stepped forward.

He stood only slightly taller than Faolain, and though her eyes slipped over the scars and burns on his body, she did not register them as unusual. The black ‘Teke had seen her share of battered warriors, so the sight was hardly new to her, but she did acknowledge the strangeness of the markings on such a young horse. Normally, she would have asked; Faolain’s curiosity often led her to stick her nose into business in which it did not belong. However, she had never asked Iscariot about his legs, and the perlino stallion had come to be one of her dearest friends. Since then, she had learned to keep her mouth shut more often.

Faolain’s ears remained trained on the Fjord stallion as he spoke. She waited for him to gather the words and the courage to speak them before nodding once. She extended her delicate muzzle to him in greeting. ”I saw you arrive,” she said simply. ”What brings you to the Ridge?”