He had dropped some weight since his illness, and his buttermilk coat was still patchy with dark winter fur, but he could feel his strength returning: and not a moment too soon. The desert could not protect itself from outsiders indefinitely; Vesti’s arrival was proof enough of that. If his childhood experiences were anything to go by, soon enough there would be a stallion fitter and stronger and more experienced than he coming to challenge him. It was only a matter of time. And he had best be prepared, sooner rather than later. Fate would not wait around for him.

So it was that the young stallion left the comfort of his family’s oasis to traverse the ruthless void that was his home. Orhan knew these sands; he knew how they were prone to changing with the wind, but equally he knew that, over time, they more or less returned to how they were, like a pattern some greater being had woven into the fabric of the earth, undulating over and over like the sea itself. Yet it felt strange to walk upon them again after being away for so long, in more ways than one. Struggling up the steep sides of the dunes worked muscles he had not used in over a year, and soon he had lathered himself into a slick sweat that made him curse the remains of the winter coat that still clung to him. He pressed on, however, eventually arcing back to the shore and cruising along the beach at a trot, grateful for the cool sea spray as his nostrils constantly tested the air.

Along the border he continued, stopping when he caught whiff of something suspicious, then moving on when it proved to be nothing. When he caught sight of the second, smaller oasis he and his mother rarely visited, he hesitated, knowing there would be little point in visiting it, but craving a drink all the same. So he turned inland and used the last of his stamina to canter across the sand, frosted tail flagged like a banner.

As he crested one of the dunes that looked down upon the little oasis, however, he froze in place. There, resting below beside the water and grass, stood a red and white mare. Orhan held his breath, unsure how to approach this unforeseen situation, and let his dark eyes wander across her body, looking for clues of where she had come from. Her sloped nose was what finally clinched it for him. He had only seen one once before, from a distance when he was a baby, but he remembered that unnatural slope as clear as day, as well as his mother’s violent reaction to the horse that bore it. He must be careful here.

Orhan squealed to announce his presence and flattened his ears as he barreled down the side of the dune, hooves half-slipping in the sand and hair whipping wildly around his face. He did not attack – not yet – but came to a stop just out of striking distance, where he promptly stomped the earth in warning with his hind leg: the one with the long, faded red scar. He was desperate for a drink, but he dared not bare his flank in front of this stranger just yet. He had first best work out if she was one of the purebreds he feared her to be.

“What are you doing here? Your kind are not welcome.” He spoke decisively, but his voice was not unkind: almost as if he were warning her for her own good, rather than threatening her.