Mazarine knew who Baron was, his history, his breeding, his good nature. There was nothing wrong with him; he would have made a fine mate. She knows nothing of the stallion who led her here beyond his name: Cain. Mazarine has traded a comfortable security for freedom of choice. Her new situation is far more dangerous, but it is also far more interesting, and far more liberating. For the first time, Mazarine feels like she has control of her own destiny.

The young mare climbs ashore on the Desert island of Salem. It is still winter here, but she can feel the warmth of the a more direct, day-time sun easing the chill of her bones. She shakes the excess water from her coat and moves across the dusty landscape. Small hooves tread lightly across the sand. Her movements are effortless. She may not be desert-bred, but she should fare well here. Her nostrils flare, drinking in the smells of a place, yet strange, but should someday smell of home.

Mazarine is small, only three years old, and petite even for her breed. She stands barely thirteen hands tall. She is narrowly-built, and carried by the ripple of lean muscle. Her entire body likely weighs less than one of Cain's legs, but she's never let her size hold her back. Her proud carriage, and her brilliant, flame-colored coat project the presence of a much larger horse.

The pony mare follows the sound of others to a magical place. An oasis hides, unexpected among the otherwise dry and barren landscape. She is drawn to the water's edge, the clear blue calling to a thirsty tongue. Mazarine steps into temptation, its waters swirling around delicate fetlocks. She lowers her head and takes a deep, long drink.