The call echoed over the stones of the Inlet, ringing through his ears. Dark grey head lifted, his eyes narrowing in questioning concern. To him this was a stranger’s voice, but the tone was one of authority. As if he had just as, if not more, right to be there as Zharko had. The young stallion snorted softly into the spring air and glanced in the direction of Claymore. They were deep in the confines of the Inlet. Here she was safe from the monsters that sniffed around the borders. Still, he was hesitant to leave her side when both he and Ironclad were being called. Especially with her condition so apparent. Wordlessly, but with a soft growl, he set off to meet this stranger, grudgingly answering the call.

Eager to return to Claymore’s side, Zharko cantered the distance to the shores. Only when the king was in sight did he slow his approach. Dark eyes flicked over the other man. He had never seen the King of the Cove before, but he had smelled enough times to be able to guess. Solomon? The word was technically a question, but the tone was one of surety.

Looking over the stallion, it was as easy to see the lines Aranck had given him, and it was easy to believe this young man was born of someone completely different. Aranck had given him a coat of inky black, flickers of silver dappling his hide. Thick locks of waving pale hair covered his neck and shoulders, bannering behind him, and feathering his hooves as well. There was little doubt he was Aranck’s dark son, but his body was comparatively small. Where Aranck’s draft built made him stocky, muscles built for power bulging at his shoulders and flanks; Zharko was small, his own body lean and thin though healthy. For his age, it was almost as if time had told him to stop a breath before he could become his father’s darkened reflection.

Zharko shifted, easing his weight to be relaxed. Eyes glanced over Solomon, trying to hide his desire to return to Claymore’s side. What the King would want with him, he had no idea.