As El Aran spoke, the young stallion gently leaned his cheek against her warm, sinewy shoulder. He could feel the low hum of her voice as she talked, and it was strangely soothing; he let it carry him away to a time when he was still a boy, small and vulnerable, when his heart was empty of any concerns, and herd dynamics were the farthest thing from his mind. For a moment he almost believed it, too; he felt a zip of electricity in his blood when he remembered, a) that he was an adult, and b) just who it was that his mother was talking about.

The question took him off guard. “No!” he said too quickly, and too loudly, before lifting his head and stepping away from the black mare, the better to read her expression. His own face was knotted with something like guilt or dismay, but it quickly melted into a blank facade of confusion. She doesn’t know? “No,” he repeated, more quietly this time, and blew heavily from his nostrils. “I mean, if that’s what she wanted.”

His voice reached a gentle, sympathetic whisper. “But, Ana, she won’t be staying. She told me herself; she will move on soon enough. She is Salem’s wanderer.” And then we’ll be alone again, the thought ached within him.