The tempest roars within her. It pummels on Kore’s chest, threatening with the feverish beat of her heart to break out of her ribs and swallow both of them whole; it surges like gale force winds in her ears; it locks her knees together and escapes in the salty rivers running dark paths down her cheeks. The force of the squall in her body drains her, makes her head spin with its power, but Maslakhat deals the blows that scatter her into a thousand tiny pieces, his words slashing through the fog around her mind with clear, decisive strokes. She holds her gaze upon him, even as it hurts her to meet his eyes, even as he turns from her and strides dismissively to his usual spot atop the dune.

Part of her wants, desperately, to reach out like a viper and sink her teeth into the tender flesh of his flank as he glides past, but she has come to realize just how greatly unmatched she is against him. And besides, even as she breaks apart, even as he pricks her with so many tiny cuts and rubs salt in her wounds, she cannot bring herself to hurt him physically. Even now, some small part of her wants him to pull her close, to soothe all of her wounds, new and old. Even as she realizes she will never, ever have that, she craves it. Instead, Kore stays where she is, knowing that the next step she takes will either send her far afield or crumple her into a heap at his hooves. Her voice comes low again, strangled in the back of her throat, heavy with the water that fills her deep brown eyes to the brim.

“If I am so lost to you,” she asks, “then why are you so invested in keeping me here?”

What is the point of a prize if you let it sit, collecting dust? What use is a shining bauble thrown in an old jewelry box and forgotten? Kore’s tired of it, of being coveted at first glance and then tossed aside once her loyalty was secured. She had crawled out of the cobwebs and the shadows and forced the one who had started all of this to look at her. What they both didn’t realize was that Maslakhat’s pliable little trophy was not the perfect thing she was made out to be, but something else entirely, something broken and hastily glued back together. It might seem okay, at first glance, but the second you try to hold it, it falls apart in your hands.

The last thing Kore wants to do is litter the stallion’s beautiful utopia with the tattered remnants of herself. Before she can hear his reply, the bay turns, picking her way down the slope. Kore points her exhausted steps inland, not towards the main oasis, but more north, where the keening desert wind has carved shallow caves into the sides of the sandstone rock formations that rise out of the hard-packed earth along the territory’s border. The Arabian has spent all night running, running first from the ghosts of her past, then from the shifting image of her future, and now from the others that flock like birds to her once-secluded sanctuary. All she wants is to rest, alone from everyone, and gather herself together. If she is so worthless to this place, she figures, she doesn’t need to be constantly underfoot anymore. Aidoneus’ question sticks in her mind’s eye. Would leaving really be so bad, if staying made her feel like this? What would true freedom feel like? What would Maslakhat, and Ak Burun, and the rest of them do without her in their back pockets, bending to their will? Would they even notice? Or care?

Kore finds a crevasse just big enough for herself, and as she slips into cool semidarkness, the thin scraps of her composure fall like a heavy cloak at her hooves. Her tired legs buckle beneath her, and as she drifts once more into fitful sleep, the sounds of her renewed sobs float on the thin haze out and over the sands beyond.