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Nekharat had never been doted on like this and despite how very strange it felt, she honestly enjoyed it. Though she also found it ironic and maybe even oddly poetic that the trademark gleam of her coat was an adaptation to the stark, heat-laden conditions of the desert—mainly for camouflage. What made her invisible in her homeland made her stand out like a fiery red beacon in the proper light anywhere else. She never thought something that disadvantaged her in a different situation would serve a positive purpose elsewhere. Perhaps this was indicative that she was exactly where she should be—here, now, with the brilliantly market stallion called Valens.
“Well Valens,” she remarked with a smile. “The pleasure is mine. I am Nekharat.”
She kept her dark eyes trained on him as he paced around her, admiring and pressing against her coat with his own. She wondered where such an interestingly marked horse like him came from, and if there was a reason for his spots and patches and the length and thickness of his mane, just like there was for hers. She might have asked, except she had a distinct feeling that Valens did not care about the practicality of his appearance.
“And I appreciate that,” she affirmed, unsure exactly what he meant, but taking it to mean that he would watch her back if she needed it—a pledge to be an ally, which was something Nekharat would be foolish to admonish.
“I have to ask,” she continued. “Where did you learn that lovely song?”
NEKHARAT
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