When Macabre meets K1A1’s gaze, greeting her with a casual yet grave simplicity, the great blue mare stares on solemnly. She notices how the mare does not bother introducing her son, and K1A1 almost respects her for not wasting the breath. She knew his time was running out. How could she not? What perplexes her more is that she let him live as long as he had. Though terminating him upon his birth would have been the most logical choice, K1A1 reminds herself that not all mares see the world the way she does—through a lens of duty, regardless of what pain or hardship the fallout might inflict.

“We have not.”

K1A1’s gaze returns to the colt, wavering about and coughing. She studies him for a moment longer, her breathing turned rapid—small patterns of sweat forming upon her neck and darkening her blue-tinged coat. Her blood boiling with long-repressed anger, the large mare stamps her wide hoof into the dirt, aiming to fissure the earth if she could. She does not want to remember her first son, or the circumstances that brought him into the world.

“I am K1A1,” she offered stoically, snapping out of her momentary lapse of contained rage. With regained composure, she continues—a certain kind of soberness in her voice.

“If there is anything you need me to do, seek me out.”

K1A1