He almost flinches with shame when he hears those words.

“Not for the crown,” he answers slowly, yet truthfully. The stallion stands there in the dim light of dusk, head hanging just above his knees. There is pain in his dark eyes, but not all of it is physical. He can only hope, as his lead mare comes closer to rest her muzzle reassuringly on his withers, that she cannot see the truth in his gaze.

“I… fought for a mare,” he eventually continues. His words aren’t entirely false. But more like I took a mare hostage to blackmail another stallion, then had my ass kicked for it. Does it even matter that I won the battle anymore? He thinks of Fatale and knows how even though he’d retained the right to call her his, she would never truly be ‘his’. It wasn’t her he wanted; thus it wasn’t her he would tell El Aran about.

Encantador sighs heavily and leans against the mare’s soft, warm barrel. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I should have saved my energy for the crown. Instead I’m going to have to wait until these damn injuries are gone.” His voice cracking, he falls silent, ashamed of himself.