Though her heart lifted when they returned to the Inlet, Kvothe’s parting from the kind stranger was not without tears.

After what she had just endured, the slender chestnut should have cried for herself. For the theft of her innocence, which she had given freely to Ironclad last fall. For fear of the consequences that she might face when the greying stallion found out what had happened to her - the possibility of losing her home, and the new life that she’d begun to build here. She might have even wept for the daughter whom she feared lost beyond finding, if the faint-but-fresh trail of her scent had not filled the red woman with a fresh surge of hope. Instead, Kvothe’s tears were for the chimeric stallion who had left her side at the shore. For the apparent sorrow that he had felt, and the regret that still haunted his heterochromic eyes. The gentle mare was certain she’d done irreparable damage to the compassionate stallion, twisting him into something darker - unable to see that the truth was quite the opposite.

She wept for her rapist, and felt nothing but shame and resentment towards herself.

Perhaps it was just the lingering impression she bore of the Crossing’s bustle, but the Inlet seemed desolate by comparison. Beautiful to the point of making her chest ache, but empty. Ironclad was nowhere to be seen - not amidst the small band that was scattered in the grass beyond the shore. Not in the forest that she felt herself inexplicably drawn to, nor the glade that was cradled in its center. Nevertheless, Kvothe allowed herself a few moments to linger, and bask in the warmth of memory - hoping that it might drive away the ashen chill of her guilt. Pike had been conceived and born in this place, which the summer sun had painted as golden as the filly’s coat. She had taken her first steps here, and was cushioned by the soft carpet of grass when she inevitably fell. They had even come back to this place now and then to play as a family - the trio of the chestnut mare and the two fillies she cared for ducking in and out of the trees beyond with bright eyes and warm laughter.

Kvothe had only been separated from her daughter for a single day, but she missed her. And though she could not doubt the evidence of her senses, the mingled trail of Pike, Lakota, and Ironclad’s scents left her with more questions than answers. If Ironclad had found them, then why were they not with the herd? And where had her Prince been when their child had gone missing to begin with? The auburn Friesian had believed that he was nearby, watching over the herd - but when she had realized that Pike was missing, the Inlet’s ruler had been just as absent. It had forced her to make a difficult decision - to leave the older red filly in order to search for the younger one. The guilt from that still haunted her, too. In a single day, she had proven herself a poor mother to both girls.

Without her dam or an experienced mother amongst the herd, there was no one to tell Kvothe that even the best mothers faced such trials. That children sought mischief as the waves sought the shore, and could never be held back from it entirely. So she blamed herself, just as she continued to hold the burden of guilt for what had happened with Tyr. It was fortunate that he had proven himself as capable of forgiveness as he was of kindness - and that he had even gone out of his way to return her home. WIthout the bachelor’s help, Kvothe could have never found her way back to the Inlet so quickly.

A beckoning call broke the melancholy chestnut’s moment of introspection. Though she did not recognize the voice, the slender mare responded intuitively, leaving the warmth of her memories and the chill of her regret behind her. Traveling through the forest at a steady lope, Kvothe even dared to hope that she might find her daughter waiting for her in the open space beyond the trees, smiling and wriggling and washing her dam’s coat with her little tongue as she was wont to do.

Instead, she came to face her Prince’s - no, her King’s - Queen, her appearance wild and unkempt. Burrs tangled in her mane, and dried saltwater clumping together patches of fur on her belly and haunches. But Kvothe faced her unselfconsciously despite these things, and despite the faint scent of unfamiliar stallion that still clung to her. She was even too desperate to offer the proper formality and respect that any monarch was due, hastening instead to ask the question that had clung to her lips since her return. “Pike - my daughter. And Lakota. Where are they? Where did Ironclad take them?”