Maslakhat looked back over his shoulder at Kore as she stood trembling, fuming with sadness and hatred all the same, his eyes cast upon her with pity for her own lack of strength.

“You are not lost to me,” he corrected. “Nor is there an unseen force keeping you here. When I first met you, I believed you would be happy among these sands with myself and the others, but clearly that is not the case.”

It seemed that the dark mare simply could not fathom his way of thinking—Maslakhat had never viewed mares as prizes, objects or anything less than equal figures with their own unique sets of capabilities. He had hoped that by showing Kore this place, a land befitting for those of hot-blooded constitutions, she might thrive, rooted in soil that might support her growth and prosperity.

But instead she shriveled, and like a tumbleweed—unwatered and with no roots—she drifted away.

The golden bay stallion sighed heavily, feeling her presence gone from the dune he stood atop. A light breeze tousled his dark mane as the sun at last crested the horizon, casting long shadows over the heaps of sand that lay before him. A new day had come, painted with a multitude of spectacular colors and teeming with limitless possibility.

And he hadn’t slept at all.


MASLAKHAT

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