Mattheo shakes the sweat from his brow, glaring up at the sun that blazes above him. It didn't make any sense - why was it so damn hot in the winter?!

It only affirms his belief that Salem is a hellhole meant only for cold-blooded creatures, or those who enjoy sweating out their weight in water in a single day. The only reason he stays is for Nyimara and their daughters. The silver-haired queen has captivated him thoroughly. He has come to enjoy exploring the facets of her personality, from her mercurial moods to the way she moves with grace and ease across the rolling sands.

Though their relationship is still something nebulous to him, something not quite defined, he cannot help but wonder if his loyalty to her will be repaid in kind someday. It would be easy to ask, but Mattheo wants to see how long it might take her to act of her own accord. He had already agreed to assist her in orchestrating Marceline's long-overdue fall from grace, but to be by her side in some official capacity would certainly be the icing on the cake.

Mattheo seeks Nyimara out amongst the rolling dunes, his displeasure evident in the way his ears twist and hide in the thick tangle of his ebony mane.

"You must be aware that Marceline has returned to the Hills," he says by way of greeting, spitting the bitter words from his tongue. "It seems she is making moves in the Dunes, and I recently scented her in the Badlands. I've no doubt she is trying to make alliances with the other leaders to tilt the odds of claiming the Salem crown in her favor." And if she succeeded? Well, Mattheo could kiss his comfortable life in the Dunes goodbye, that was for damn sure. Not only that, but Nyimara's hopes of taking Salem would be thoroughly dashed as well. Three against one was not likely to end in a favorable outcome for the witch queen, no matter how tenacious she was. They - she - would need to work to gain the favor of the other leaders. At the very least, weakening them to the point of submission would be necessary.

Mattheo catches the queen's gaze from beneath the dark curtain of his forelock. "If there is any way in which I might assist you to turn the tides back in your favor, you need only ask." Father would be rolling, Mattheo thinks, knowing his only son has bent the knee for a mare. But Nyimara was not any ordinary mare, and these were no ordinary circumstances.

So let him roll, Mattheo thinks wryly. The complaints of disgraced men were hardly worth heeding.