There is a rhythm to the desert, as Hasan is discovering. The days scorch; the nights freeze. The winds shift the landscape in a constant dance, and to live too far from a source of freshwater is to invite death to your door.

How Hasan had survived several days of dehydration and starvation before stumbling upon Asmodeus's herd, he could not say. How his mother, and several generations of their family before her, had spent their entire lives here—even raised families—had certainly been beyond Hasan's comprehension too, at first. But he is coming to find beauty in the bleakness: in the vastness of the night sky; in the open stretches of land so perfect for galloping; in the pure, complete silence unlike anything else he's experienced. And there is more life to it than meets the eye: life in the lizards that skitter across the sand, the coyotes that yap at dusk, and in the blazing orange flowers that nestle in their beds of cacti needles.

Hasan is beginning to find his own rhythm, too. At midnight and high noon, when the temperatures are most unbearable for his unacclimated body, he sleeps; as the sky blooms red-gold at dusk and dawn, he rises to feed, water, and exercise himself, as well as becoming familiar with his new home by following the scent marks Asmodeus leaves along the borders of the territory (while keeping well away from the area in which Evren had breathed her last). Keeping fit seems to be important to this herd, which Hasan does not mind—he always feels his best when he is active, and in any case, it keeps his mind well away from the darker thoughts that linger at its threshold.

And yet, a restlessness crawls within him. A few brief encounters with women on the Crossing had temporarily sated him, yet any time Asmodeus is near, it returns as a low-lying sense of anxiety that makes his tail twitch and his legs antsy to move. Though the stallion has done nothing to outright confirm Hasan's suspicions, he feels as though Asmodeus's eyes are always on him, always judging, always watching: a reminder of all Hasan is not doing.

The afternoon sky is fading to lavender one day when Hasan jerks awake from a fitful dream. His black and white sides are damp with sweat and his heart racing as his knees unlock themselves in preparation to fight or flee a foe that is not there. His eyes scour the herd, which is loosely clustered on the other side of the oasis, some grazing but most resting. Hasan had peeled away from them a little earlier to doze the last of the afternoon heat away, for he still is not entirely comfortable letting his defenses down around them, but now it seems he has not entirely escaped their attention—an individual is pulling away them them, arcing around the edge of the dusky-indigo water, making straight for Hasan.

He pricks his ears and stands a little straighter in an attempt to compose himself.

"Evening," he mutters, in as casual a tone as he can manage.