Mattheo left the Shore feeling more irate than he had in years. His plan to tear Marceline from the quaint little life she'd built here had failed, thwarted by little more than ill timing. But even in the face of his failure, he had come away with a clue: the island of Salem. The name had slipped from her tongue and immediately piqued Mattheo's interest. And so, beneath a sky smattered with stars, he turned his sights westward.

The full moon bathed the sea in silvery light, guiding his way as he swam, each powerful stroke of his legs bringing him closer to his destination. As the distance between himself and Salem shortened, his thoughts wandered. If brute force wouldn't be enough to force Marceline out, then he would have to resort to subtler methods to use in this impending war of attrition. He could make her life a living hell, chipping away at the carefully constructed ivory tower she had somehow positioned herself within.

A dark sliver of land was etched into the horizon ahead of him, its shores promising refuge from the exhaustion that threatened to overcome him. Squinting his eyes against the spray of the surf, Mattheo pushed himself harder, his limbs burning and protesting with each movement. But the currents had turned tumultuous and before he realized it he had been veered off course by the shifting tides. Instead of making landfall at the island's easternmost shore as he had intended, he was swept north into the gaping strait between Salem and the Crossing. With no small amount of effort, he managed to correct his course - somewhat - and make for the island's northern shore.

By the time he dragged himself from the sea, hues of pink and pale blue bled across the sky and the sun had begun to curl golden fingers over the horizon, heralding the start of a new day. One by one, the stars began to blink from existence. Mattheo shook the briny water from his coat, trying to calm the tremble of his legs, the droplets glistening like jewels in the low morning light. Pale pink nostrils flared as he surveyed the land before him.

It was.... desolate. A seemingly endless expanse of rolling, windswept golden dunes that stretched for miles, the air dry and dusty. Mattheo's lips curled in a queer mix of disgust and amusement as he began to walk inland, his hooves sinking into the soft sand. This was the kingdom Marceline had claimed to have ruled? Funny. Leave it to her to find a home as barren and bleak as her blackened heart.

Mattheo straddled what appeared to be a border - invisible, but undeniable. A soft, feminine perfume drifted from the west warred with a heavier, muskier, distinctly masculine odor from the east. The mare's scent gave him pause - there was something vaguely familiar about it. Yet try as he might to place whatever fleeting memory it might have been tied to, he could not quite recall where he might have encountered it before.

No matter. Mattheo was not here to get caught up in the past. His limbs feeling lighter, he strode deeper into the desert, with only his dark, stretching shadow for company.