He can hear Kore shouting, her voice as hot as the summer sands ringing out across the wide expanse of dunes that roll across the arid hills and valleys around him, deepened brown by the the blue night above. She nearly collided with him as she dashed down the steep sloping dune, stopping only to demand her punishment aloud—her eyes as icy as her tone. Her white tail lashed her hindquarters like a switch brandished by an oppressor.

Maslakhat did not wield the whip, but she offered it to him readily, as though she expected it him to use it to rebuke her. This presumption of abuse bothered him, and his lips pulled into a small frown upon his face as she demanded punishment. He sighed, his expression softening.

“Who hurt you, Kore?”

He felt a bubble of ire in his belly that this was how she perceived him—as some kind of tyrant who only deigned to use her and then punish her for anything less than stellar behavior. Maslakhat was not the type to coddle, but nor was he cruel—especially toward those who of high worth, like the dark bay Arabian standing before him.

“You deserve better,” he continued, referring both to whatever oppression she’d previously faced and the company of the thick, black stallion who washed upon the shores. Kore was a noble mare, made to run upon these sands the same as him—and yet her eyes looked outward, toward strangers unbefitting of her value. He hoped that he could show her that she was truly worthy of being here.

Maslakhat blinked softly and took a step toward her, his neck outstretched and nostrils flaring softly, aiming to lightly touch her shoulder—a gesture of comfort, if she was ready to accept it.


MASLAKHAT

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