”This will do,” the ashen stallion muttered, surveying the edge of the forest from the pebbled beach. Pale light shone weakly through thin clouds; it was only about an hour from sunrise, and the shadows had yet to release much of anything on Septimus’s side of the island. It was chilly and misty and reeked of salt and pine.

Septimus decided he rather liked it.

Pebbles clattered beneath his hooves as he strode up the beach toward the thick trees. The mist burned away even as he entered them, swirling around his legs for a handful of strides before fading off and leaving only tall grasses and ferns. The undergrowth dampened Septimus’s dark legs with fresh dew. He kept his head high on a crested neck, ears cocked forward, nostrils flared to bring in the scents of this new territory. It seemed empty, as he thought it might be. Others, he had been told, lived in the plains beyond the forest, but he had no interest in them. Septimus intended to keep to himself within the confines of this forested kingdom.

It was noon by the time Septimus finished a full patrol of the area. He found himself satisfied with the territory, and returned to several spots he had earlier taken note of which had shelter suitable for a small herd (or just himself, which was the likelier situation). In the end he chose a small clearing surrounded by thicket, in which he curled up to finish recovering from his journey.