Yusuf could not hear her steps in the sand over the constant shush of the waves crashing on the shore. He was not aware of just how long he had been laying there before he regained consciousness, but it could not have been too long as his coat was still soaked with saltwater. His head was heavy and his limbs tired, and Yusuf did not think he had the strength to move even if he wanted to.

The new voice startled him and when El Aran spoke, his head snapped up off the wet sand. She was terse and unsympathetic to his frail condition and Yusuf cowered at the sharpness and cruelty in her words.

“I… I…” Yusuf stuttered, coughing as he attempted to speak. “I’m sorry…” he finally managed. He really was. He did not intend to wash up on the beach of the Desert like some kind of waterlogged carcass—he was supposed to be with Sylvia and Şahin in the Paradise. Even if the hostile mare hadn’t mentioned the Desert, Yusuf could have guessed he was not where he wanted to be.

As El Aran demanded that Yusuf get up and leave, he realized that he would not be able to comply with her—not out of defiance, but sheer inability. He was afraid of her, and afraid for his life once again. Were the gods toying with him? Did they have him survive the ocean’s fury only to land at the feet of an overprotective mare with deadly intentions?

“Please don’t hurt me,” Yusuf begged weakly from the ground.


-yusuf