If there was ever a personification of power it was the vision of these three horses standing under the same stars; their narrow hooves pressed into the same sand, their nostrils breathing the same air, and their distinctive shapes bathed in the same, soft moonlight. Valve felt some sort of otherworldly force among the three of them as well, and although she does not worship the same gods as they do, she cannot deny the presence of divinity—particularly from the grey. In contrast, Valve can feel the red mare’s boiling aggression from considerable lengths away. She can only leer at her warily, prohibited by her companion from speaking to her in a steely manner. Kutsal ve lanetlenmiş, Valve mused inwardly before continuing the discourse.

“We are not so different,” Valve offered philosophically. “Though I do not walk these sands tonight for leisure.”

Valve cocked a hind leg, resting the tip of her hoof in the sand and paused a moment to mull over the wisest course of action. She was reasonably certain these mares were the Arabians that Gabbar had been searching for, and that her nephew, Maslakhat, had recently become involved with. Revealing too much about her goals at this point would not be of any benefit, and so Valve decided the best course of action would be to turn the attention toward them.

“I must inquire,” the black mare continued. “Do either of you know the name, Gabbar?”

It would be best to be sure. Making the wrong assumption was often a grave mistake, one that a mare like Valve would never make. Her words, actions, and demeanor were all carefully selected—much like the blood of her ancestors. Only half-breeds were so hapless as to assume.

VALVE
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