Dark eyes lock onto those of the chimera stallion as she makes her approach. She does not cower in fear at the intensity of his stormy gaze as any other creature might have done. No. Nyimara approaches him with her proud head lifted and dark eyes glittering; a mask of indifference, similar to the one he too wears, set firmly into place. She is not sure exactly what she expects his response to her question to be, but the one he offers to her does cause her pause. ’Quinn is gone…’ that alone is of no surprise. For all his whispered promises and hushed reverence, the blue-eyed stallion had constantly proved to be no more than a pretty face deadset on riding her curtails to notoriety. At some point in her lifetime, before Asmodeus came into her company, the silver-haired witch might have growled out her anger at the news. Quinn had sought HER out all those seasons ago. His silver tongue had coated her skin with promises of pretty stories so vivid that she could almost taste them. It was only after she made him the king at her side did his true colors began to shine. He was no more than a sheep in wolf’s skin. A follower. A disappointment. Now...now, the knowledge that he had abandoned the Desert and the realm of power she fought so viciously to create is of no importance. He was not worthy nor would her cold heart ache for his touch. Not like it did for the chimera stallion standing proud and tall before her.

His gaze turns from her to the landscape that sprawled before them, his eyes darkened and void of emotions. His height and the rise of the ridge upon which he stands give him the appearance of a king, towering above her as though she is no more than a lowly commoner. This she will not stand. Fearless of the repercussions, the chocolate-colored mare closes the small space between them now, her still slender frame moving with ease over the uneven earth until she is standing at his side, a mere breath away from the brush of his flesh against her own. She too casts her near-black eyes over the ever-shifting landscape, noting the similarities and differences that erosion and sandstorms had created in her absence. She refuses to comment on his news of Quinn, not daring to show or even feel the slightest bit of disappointment. She had never been completely blind to the hard glares that her two lovers often settled upon one another when they thought she could not see. Clearly, she remembers the way Asmodeus’ skin would grow taunt and his jaws clench together as though he wished to speak jealousy into existence… yet he never had. Instead, they remained both (more metaphorically than physically in the latter seasons of her reign) at her side in silent tension.

It is his next words however that draw her attention back to his hardened gaze. ’...and Solomon is dead…’ The words she craved to hear and yet somehow, somehow… it caused the beast within her to scream in rage. Dark-tipped ears disappear beneath the thick curling tendrils of her silvery white mane. Paper-thin nostrils flare as the heart within her breast beats at a quicker pace. Solomon, the murderer of her own sire, the stallion that she swore to the gods she would tear apart piece by small piece, was dead. Dead and not at her own hooves. Not at her own making.

For a long moment she remains silent, concentrating on the slowly released breath as it expels from her nostrils. Gentle zephyrs tickle the ends of her wind-tangled mane and she allows her mind to think now of the times when Bjorn Asmodeus’ pressed such soft touches against her throat in the wake of their coupling and the birth of Cahyr. It would take time, much more time, to erase Bjorn from her thoughts and push away the memories that her time in the Falls had created. She had made her choice and she chose not to be a victim any longer. He would not shatter her heart again. A deep breath exhales from her lungs as a single brow raises and voidless eyes shift to gaze at him from beneath thick, pale lashes. ”How?” the query is spoken in hushed tones. Nyimara does not dare herself to speak further on it, not yet. Tension builds like a slow fire within her. She was supposed to be the one to end the ice king. She was supposed to feel the satisfaction of his bones cracking beneath her hooves. She was supposed to sate her thirst for vengeance with the metallic tang of his crimson blood as it wet her tongue. She planned to make him suffer; to take everything that he loved from him one tiny piece at a time until he welcomed the death she offered him. Solomon was supposed to die a long, slow, agonizing death at her hooves. The thought that he managed to once again escape her grasp in a more permanent fashion was… infuriating.
But she has no more time to dwell on that.
Instead of learning the details of Solomon’s death, when Asmodeus turns to her with his mask of indifference, the words that fall from his lips are even and filled with self-assurance.

’..the desert is mine…’

A single brow arches as her unusually long tail snaps audibly against the supple curve of her chocolate flank. Tilted flutes emerge from their resting place atop her skullcap. ’...and so are you.’ Those four words cause the firmly planted mask to slip. Lightening flashes in her eyes as the tension continues to build. With measured effort, the once-queen contains the feral growl that threatens to awaken within her breast. Instead, she allows her slender legs to shift beneath her, distributing the tension to her jagged hooves as they dig crooked caverns into the hard, impacted earth. For a moment she remains silent, averting her gaze to the serene desert land around them, focusing her attention on the noticeable form of her creamy son and Rota as they romp alongside the shallow waters of the nearby oasis.

She had not become queen countless times by simple good looks. The twisted mind behind those eyes is filled with lethal pathways to take.

Cautiously she plucks at an idea, following the thread of thought until it manifests itself into the form of a sultry smile tugging along the velvet curve of her lips. She angles her body away from his in the slightest, the curve of her hip pressing the lightest of touches against his patchwork flank. Long, chocolate serpentine arches, pressing her small muzzle into the concave of her breast as dark eyes offer him a curious gaze from beneath the layers of thick lashes and veil of her forelock. ”My king…’ she begins, pausing for a fleeting moment, ”I have belonged to you for some time now. This should not be news…” she breathes, allowing the arid winds to carry her words into drifting silence.

Expectantly she gazes up at him, certain that he will turn to her in a fiery embrace that she would welcome with open arms. What he does, is far from the image of scenarios she had planted in her head.
Anger, deathly quiet radiates from his words, hanging heavier and heavier between them with each passing syllable. Again, the facade falters on her exotic features. ’....why you reek of someone else?’

Nyimara has seen her fair share of traps in her lifetime to know that the question he plants before her now is just that. A trap. She had created this monster in her image and why did she think he was too young and naive to miss the fading estrus on her skin or the lingering spice of Bjorn’s scent that covered it? Somewhere deep within her breast, the first flicker of fear began to spark to life. Whatever answer she offered him would either mend or dismantle their relationship. Turn the solid tower of stone to crumbling rubble. The only question was…. Would she be willing to condemn her heart in the process?

For a moment longer she remains silent, her gaze unreadable as it meets his own stormy eyes. Blunt teeth grind together firmly behind taunt cheeks as she tries to read his unreadable expression. After what seems like hours, neither one yielding their gaze to the other, finally, the words form on her lips. ”Not by choice… I assure you.” And with those few words, she takes her own dagger to what remained of her beating soul, stabbing the blossoming glow until only smoldering pieces remained in its place. Forcefully, she makes herself drop her gaze, letting the forced gleam of pain linger in her eyes as the sleek coat of chocolate shudders as if remembering a horrific event. ”Not by choice.” she repeats, her voice quieter now. One…two…three. She counts the measured breaths to herself before lifting her gaze to his hunting eyes. Proudly she lifts her chin, her sleek throat exposed and inviting. ”Would you truly condemn your queen for that?” she purrs, turning the tides once more towards him. Table. Set. Match.

She worked too hard for too long to give up now. The desert sands ran deep in her blood and veins. Asmodeus was far too great a prodigy to not put her entirety into.