The ground here is cold beneath his feet, the distant trees already burgeoning with decay. Işıksız is far from home. No further, however, than the silent black stallion who has been harrying Marceline like a fat black fly. It’s no wonder he’s drawn south: this land repulses life with cold the way Salem destroys it with heat. What is odd is that this stallion has a sizable herd already. Clearly he seeks to swell his ranks out of gluttony, or perhaps has the same ambitions as the spotted queen. Işık can appreciate that even as he appreciates the black and white mare who lingers alone, oblivious to the dappled stallion who lurks in a nearby grove.

When she beckons, he slips out of the darkness cupped beneath the trees and strides in a slow circle around her, stopping only when he stands between her and the herd. It’s risky —even now the black stallion might be back from his most recent brawl with Marceline— but what’s life without a little risk? Işık moves closer, deliberate in his pace, prepared to lunge and block her should she try to escape. He lowers his head and snakes a bite toward her, teeth clapping on empty air to prompt her into motion in the direction he wants her to go.