Shararat tosses her fine head and looks skyward as she catches her breath. Thousands of glittering stars look down upon them and for her that is enough; she needn't know or assume anything more. “Perhaps you are right,” she says more soberly as he teases her about the heat having gone to her head. The black mare lowers her gaze to regard him again, her dark eyes searching his as certainty unfolds within her. Why is she here on Salem when she could be literally anywhere else? She has never cared for this dry heat, though it has also never felled her. Shararat was born among humidity and storms and she longs for the variety that this island simply cannot offer her. She longs, too, to put distance between herself and memories of her mother's homeland. There is a violence she cannot wait to forget.

When he noses her shoulder, she smiles, and merriment returns to her eyes. “An excellent idea,” she replies. “I think I shall. Though I wouldn't dream of distracting you from your visit to the Badlands— you must come up with a better name for it than that, and share it with me when we meet again. Do you travel often to the Crossing, Akello?” For there is where she intends to head once she has finished on Atlantis, to try once more her hand at making her own way in life unencumbered by the burden of responsibilities Iftikhar, and then Ak Burun, have tried to place on her shoulders.

She is struck again by restlessness and spurred by sudden purpose as she jogs forward and then wheels, tail snapped into a streaming banner behind her as she calls to the painted-brindle boy who has so succinctly cleared her head of doubt. “I will meet you there, at the Falls, when the snows have melted and the ocean ceased her storms. Farewell, Akello, until then— and thank you. Thank you!” she cries as she wheels again and lunges into a run, flowing over the starlit sands of the Desert on her way to the sea, and everything beyond Salem's shores.