There was something — something — about this place that felt both familiar and utterly alien, all in the same glance.

It’s too green. That was the dark chestnut’s first appraisal of her new home; a complaint that seemed absurd given the desolation she and Tyr had left behind. But it was. In fact, it wasn’t only too green — the Ridge was too colorful in general, the shades so vivid and bright that they hurt her eyes. Vibrant oranges, brilliant blues, even the neon red of a snake that Kvothe had been warned was venomous. Too bright and too loud. Yes, there was that too. When she’d first stepped into the deceptive twilight of the jungle, the red woman had anticipated a cathedral-like silence. Instead, strange bird-song wove itself between the chirruping of insects and the croaking of frogs. And though Kvothe rarely saw these noisome creatures, they contributed to the impression that her new home was crowded with life. No, bursting with it. It made her feel claustrophobic and anxious, though she couldn’t quite express the reason why.

The truth was, the Ridge was too… too everything.

As much as it might overwhelm her senses, however, there was a benefit to this place that could not be measured: the absence of Narene. Even the unfamiliar dangers of the Ridge — the elusive shadow-cats, the violent storms — could not begin to match the apprehension that Kvothe felt when she recalled the old black mare. Apprehension and anger. That her grand-dam had lied to her was apparent, but there was something more there, as well. Something that lingered at the edge of her thoughts in the same way that a word could get caught on the tip of one’s tongue. At times, the Friesian felt close — so maddeningly close to finding the key that would unlock those memories. And at others she would stand in the same spot for hours, struggling to keep vital pieces of the present from slipping away.

The name of the stallion who’d brought her here. His name. What had it been? Halfway through the motion of lowering her head to drink, Kvothe froze. Her breath gusted out with such force that it sent ripples over the glass-still surface of the pool, splintering her reflection into vague red shards. His name. The slender chestnut stepped back, her white-rimmed eyes searching her surroundings desperately for an answer that wasn’t there. It was — Tor, right? Or was it Lear? “No, no, no.” The sound of her own voice startled Kvothe. Her ears flicked back uncertainly, burying themselves in the tangle of her mane like hunted creatures seeking shelter amidst the tall grass.

The throbbing above her right temple — where the old scar still stood out, a pale strip of flesh amidst fur — was there abruptly, like the tide rushing up the beach. Before she could say how she’d gotten there, the Friesian mare found herself on the ground beside the pool. The scents of lilies and damp earth, sweat and fear filled her nostrils. It was slipping away. All of it, just like it’d done before. No, it wasn’t. She still remembered that the golden stallion had brought her here. She still remembered that he knew her. And she remembered— she remembered what she’d offered him in gratitude and relief (and an echo of the love they’d shared), remembered the life that was growing within her even now.

“Get up, Kvothe,” she told herself firmly, bracing her hooves in the slippery muck at the water’s edge. “If not for your own sake, then for his. For Tyr — and for his son, too.” Warm tears streaking down her cheeks, she heaved herself upward, twisting her neck around until she could touch her muzzle to the gentle swell of her belly. And if anything of the woman she’d been was left, it was the fierce love that could be glimpsed in her expression before she turned back to the task of her drink. A love that was both the source of her strength… and her purpose.

A love that was real.

Gods help her, it was real.