The last of my cities have burned

Rich, black earth gives way to stony soil as the russet mare climbs. The vegetation changes with the soil. The woods begin to thin, leaving scrub and tough grass to line the path. The way is not all ascension; Temple finds herself climbing up for much of the journey, but then she often must keep her balance over steep declines and narrow ledges. There is a valley here, somewhere, she thinks; the Falls have given it away.

She begins to catch signs of herd life before the sun sets, confirming her suspicions. Grass grows here, and as the path broadens into a basin of sorts, Temple can see where the resilient vegetation has been beaten into walking paths. Her dark eyes follow a few of them in the failing light, but her small hooves remain on the main trail, and she presses forward.

The land continues to climb. Temple follows the drifting scents of mare, higher and higher, wondering how far beyond the border she has gotten. Has she even crossed a border yet? The vegetation grows sparse for a time, and then returns as she tops the edge of a plateau. This is the border, she thinks; the scent is much stronger here. The russet mare wonders if the herd travels higher in the summer, when the snows recede, and descend in the winter when the mountain top grows hostile and bitter.

She halts. Her voice, rough and deep for a mare her size, rumbles out in a quiet, probing nicker. Is anyone close enough to hear? Has she already been spotted? Stone rises above her still, surrounding—as far as she can tell, anyway—the little valley tucked so high in the clouds. Are there eyes in those ridges?

She waits.

TEMPLE