Maslakhat’s amber eyes bore into the red mare’s sidelong glance, her statement hot in his ears. Her words were a string of yarn in his mind, and he unravelled it down to the individual threads to look upon it’s make up with scrutiny.
“Ne ekersen onu biçersin,” he echoed a proverb he’d heard many times, uttered often by his father and his father’s father—one he wholly believed to be true. After all, one’s fortunes were not predestined—they were crafted expertly and with time. It was no accident that he’d built the Dunes into a place of great culture—one befitting of those who believed in the endless pursuit of perfection. Maslakhat had spent much time cultivating it, ushering forth roses where there were once weeds—thorns and all. He was not afraid of the blood they drew—in fact he welcomed it; a worthy sacrifice for such beauty, and he settled for nothing less.
He watched her stir the water and sigh, waxing poetic about perfection’s fleeting nature.
“Nor does a tree fall with a single blow,” he continued. “Fortune favors the bold, and the patient.” Maslakhat knew that perfection was not achieved in a single instance, nor was anything that was truly fulfilling attained in a single meeting.
“But surely someone like you knows this,” he offered, casting her a long look down his nose. “A woman of your quality would never settle for less.”
He flicked his dark tail, the challenge issued.
“My kingdom of dunes awaits you,” he finished before turning away from the riverbank and disappearing into the trees.
MASLAKHAT
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