Faolain could feel the weight behind Rivaini’s touch, and it told her so much more than words ever could. She leaned into it, despite the pain from the ragged cut on her muzzle, relishing the burn of the wound because it meant Rivaini was here. It meant she was home, and alive, and things were not perfect but they could always be so much worse.

But her optimistic outlook could not soften the news she bore. When she told Rivaini about the child’s existence, her heart panged with the despair written across her mate’s face. She wished she had something, anything else to say that might not distress the silver bay mare so clearly, but she could not alter the truth, and she dreaded the next words on her lips.

But to her surprise, it was relief that dawned on Rivaini’s expression, and Faolain watched with apprehensive copper eyes as the tawny mare sank to the ground.

Nyimara twists everything she touches with hate.

Faolain knew it was true. She had plagued them for so long, like a disease they could not eradicate no matter how clean they kept themselves or how they hid from the infected. The silver witch’s disease found them in quarantine just as it found them when they lived their lives without walls to isolate them from the world. It didn’t matter; they would never be left alone.

When Rivaini pressed her forehead into Faolain’s chest, the scarred black mare lowered herself to join her mate on the ground, tucking her legs at her side like a cat and flicking her tail neatly over them. She buried her face in the alabaster mane, dampening the strands with tears that rolled silently from her eyes. It was not over.

It had just begun.

Before her trip to Luthien, Faolain had been hard-pressed to find hope in the future. Nyimara would always be there, lurking around any corner, and unless the black ‘Teke and her mate slipped silently away into the night, never to return, the witch’s shadow would haunt them forever. Now, though not any safer, Faolain had at least dragged their enemy into the spotlight. She had infected Nyimara with a different plague — one of rage and grief, and it would make her careless. Faolain had gravely wounded her.

She did not expect to get away with it. She was certain that Nyimara would gather her forces and seek to destroy Faolain for her actions, but that was a battle the little black mare was prepared to fight. No more games, no more cowardly hiding behind vicious stallions and sending others to do her dirty work.

Rivaini was right. She had done the right thing, and had set into motion the beginning of the end. Faolain pressed her face harder into the curve of her lover’s neck, and felt a rare smile tug at her tattered lips.

“Thank you,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “I could have never asked you to stand by me through this cruelty. But I am so glad you are here.”