When Sayyida speaks of her father and brothers, Ak Burun glances at her sidelong but does not press. She is curious that the girl does not speak of her mother or sisters and offer instead to share what wisdom she received from the females among her herd. The Akhal-Teke is distracted, however, by Maslakhat's absence from the dune afar, and she focuses on the sands and smaller hills glowing red in the fading light as she searches for the stallion.

She cannot, however, ignore the white-adorned mare at her side. Her eyes and attention return to Sayyida as she adds a title to both her name and that of Maslakhat's. Genteel indeed, Ak Burun muses. She does not recognize the name Bahadir but stores it away as being potentially useful information to have down the line, and nodes thoughtfully at Sayyida's explanation. So. He chooses to encourage rather than possess. She wonders if it is a threat veiled by choice, but in truth has spent too little time with the golden bay male to draw any firm conclusions about that. Maslakhat has shown himself to be shrewd and indomitable during their brief interactions, and at least as calculating and deliberate as herself. No doubt each word he speaks is likewise loaded with meaning.

As Ak Burun considers the stallion of the Dunes —and what she aims to do about him— she hears the scuff of hoof over sand and turns her white nose in time to watch his singularly handsome head crest the top of their dune. She admires his slender neck and the powerful flex of his shoulders, tracing the curve of his barrel to the muscles rippling his flank beneath his sleek golden hide as he settles himself comfortably in their company. He is well-made indeed, like the sun come to earth, and she listens with half an ear as Sayyida greets him as warmly as the dawn, her own eyes tracking back up his body to find his face just as he levels his gaze upon her.

Ak Burun smiles and widens her eyes, meeting his long stare unflinchingly. Perhaps his only flaw is that he is not a stallion to be possessed. A shame, for she should have liked to sway him where she would. As it stands he does enough, she supposes, to keep her satisfied. Sayyida's presence here, and Kore's, are treated like delightful gifts delivered to her feet, and she will be content to call the Dunes her home a little longer with such pretty company to keep. It does rankle, however, that Sayyida affords him possession over herself. “He is not my malik,” Ak Burun informs them, her voice a cactus barb piercing the red haze of the evening, her eyes still unwavering on Maslakhat's handsome face as she rejects the disparity between their ranks. Then her eyes flicker sideways to sweep over Sayyida, and her voice softens as she adds, “For I am no lalla, Sayyida, only one humble mare among many of this fine herd,” though humility is the least of the emotions loaded on her tongue as she turns her hooded gaze back to Maslakhat and says, “If you will excuse me, derebeyi?”