His mother cuts a striking figure against the storm-whipped sea: all warm earth-brown and stark white where the horizon is a cold and sinister grey-green. The approaching thunderheads have swallowed every other morsel of warmth in the late evening sky, and from this distance Evren looks small enough to be swallowed, too, as if she is a child again and not a seasoned mare of twenty-two years.

Hasan breathes in the scent of salt, and blinks against the sting of wind-wrested tears. When his vision clears, his mother is gone.

No, not gone—her head bobs among the waves, the white of her mane almost indistinguishable from sea foam. Her nose is pointed out into the open ocean, and she moves with purpose.

Hasan ploughs after her, a shrill cry ripping from his throat. They had agreed to overnight here, on the Crossing, to rest and recover their strength for the second leg of their journey. She cannot leave him here alone; he does not know the way. As Hasan reaches the shore, however, he skids to a halt just short of the water's edge, sending a spray of wet sand into the air. The thrashing waves are a cacophony in his ears as he scours the sea for another glimpse of his mother, and the air prickles with electricity, crawling across his skin like insects. As the wind whips his black-and-white mane into his face, Hasan opens his mouth to call out for Evren once more—and his voice is swallowed by a deafening crack as an arc of lightning splits the sky in two, sending him stumbling sideways onto his hindquarters in a clumsy half-rear.

The waves—when his amber-green gaze scour them again—are truly empty this time.

Hasan gives the roiling clouds one last dubious glance before crashing into the sea after his mother.

The morning arrives, not with gold and glamor, but with grey and gloom. The storm—having broken early in the night—had left behind the collateral damage of shattered branches, waterlogged earth, and a fine, steady sheet of drizzle. Hasan had spent a restless night beneath the scant shelter and creaking boughs of a copse of young aspens, and—in spite of his travel-weary body—at the first grey light of dawn had set out, searching for signs of inhabitation.

Before him now, sprawling meadows brown with mud are slowly swallowed by forest, which in turn is soon engulfed by a thick bank of fog, until the forest has shrunk to a tiny cluster of trees surrounded by an eerie wall of opaque white. All is still and colorless in those moments, as though Hasan is trapped in purgatory, and his hooves echo unnaturally loudly as they squelch in the muck. His pace slows to a crawl, his damp skin prickling and his dark ears twitching in every direction, as if someone or something might lunge out of the mist at him at any moment.

Then a bright peachy glow warms the gloom to the east, and Hasan's heartbeat settles. He allows himself a brief respite to snatch a few mouthfuls of wet grass, and before he has swallowed his last bite, the fog and drizzle have all but melted away. Pale blue sky, flecked with gold and orange, blooms through the grey, unveiling a vast expanse of autumnal forest in every direction. Tentative birdsong filters through the trees, and Hasan picks up his pace once more, his stature looser and his stride more relaxed.

When he reaches the edge of a clearing, he stops to scratch at the cloying itchiness of his sodden mane which is suctioned to his neck, and freezes when a heavy scent reaches his nostrils. A stranger appears out of the brush a moment later on the other side of the clearing, his dark form splashed with white markings and bold golden eyes that are, at first, reminiscent enough of Evren that Hasan's stomach lurches.

After a moment's hesitation, Hasan dips his head slightly to show he is no threat, then takes one step out into the open: an invitation. He offers a gentle whicker, amber-green eyes watching the stranger carefully.