All those omens, all those long sleepless nights of waiting and watching and fearing and that terrible mare was here, truly here on her sands— El Aran pulled her chin in and backed up a step, her faded black coat rippling with tension. El Halin was young but formidable, almost single-handedly turning the tides of the war once she stepped into power beside Iftikhar. The red mare was a fright herself, yes, but there was something altogether unholy about the High Seer of the Arabians. Some said she’d suckled at the teat of the Walking Mare herself. El Aran knew little about her besides these tales, but they had met once before. Just once. It had been enough to send El Aran fleeing the desert a second time, retreating to the string of islands she had believed would protect her.

“The others are dead. How does it feel to be the last of your kind, Aran?”

"No," she moaned, and before the guilt could drag her heart down her breath jarred from her suddenly as a flash of black lightning knocked her to her knees. The horse had come from nowhere, sleek and shining hard as steel. El Aran tried to get one forehoof under herself to stand upright but was further unbalanced when her assailant tugged painfully at her mane, jerking El Aran to and fro and forcing the seer further off balance.

She was released suddenly. A downed horse was a dead horse —Get up, get up!— but as she exhaled and pushed herself upright there came a crack loud as thunder, a flash of red superimposed over the sand. The black mare toppled, limbs loose, eyes wide and blind as her weight settled on the coarse grit of the Desert.