Maslakhat was restless. He strolled across the Dunes, keeping an eye on the borders, expecting at any moment to see a hostile dished head cresting over the sand with a flagged tail—El Halin or Iftikhar—ready to lead a siege to unseat him and Valve from this land. He snorted, growing more anxious with each day that had passed that he did not see them. Valve had returned, he had noticed, but he did not want to approach her until he had to—or she beckoned him.

The golden bay Akhal-Teke hoped that perhaps the Arabians had simply returned to their homeland. He wasn’t even sure this was a possibility, but he did hope that Gabbar might prove himself useful and shed a little light on the situation so that he and Valve could adequately prepare for whatever challenges lay ahead.

It was early, and the sun had just barely come into view, casting long shadows underneath him as he walked. He almost didn’t see the grey-white Spanish mare lying with her legs tucked underneath her, resting peacefully as though she had been there all along. He whickered lightly toward her, his ears forward with curiosity, thinking that she perhaps looked familiar.

“Ade?” he inquired softly, unsure.



MASLAKHAT
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