Zharko’s mind was abuzz. Claymore had birthed a foal, his foal, and Solomon had approached him with an offer the young man felt as though he could not refuse. The chance to watch his father truly fall from grace was a taste so sweet in his mouth even the dew dipped mosses of the tundra, or the sweet kisses he shared with Claymore could not compare. His own consciousness thirsted for the fall of Aranck, just as Aranck thirsted for Zharko’s life.

Still, the responsibility of ruling a land, even with the support of allies pressed hard against his thoughts. Leadership was not his ambition. It had never been his goal to lead others into anything. He had only wished to find his brother on these islands, he had failed. Now he only desired to stand beside Ironclad, and his existence had brought unwanted attention at that.

The silver hissed to himself. It seemed as though he could not do anything he had set out to, justifying his father’s assertion that he was a waste of blood. Still, as he looked in the direction his small family grazed, he could not help but believe he was meant for something.

Taking himself away and stepping up to his duties, the small statured stallion patrolled the trails of the Inlet. Eyes clear and wary despite his clouded mind. A scent he was unfamiliar with wafted through his nose, the velvet soft skin flaring with instinctual anger. This was not a stallion of the Inlet, and he was less than welcome. A high scream ripped through his throat and he tore off after the stranger’s scent. Dark eyes locked onto the struggling forms, his rage building as Tyr pressed his body and his teeth against one of Ironclad’s mares. Wordless, soundless, Zharko blindly charged forward with no other thought than to use his speed and surprise body weight to crash into the offending stallion and force him away from Medusa.