The shadowmere had spied the shadow of the Pegasus as he flew above, for he was a large specimen to behold. Regardless, Circe did not move from her place or run from the obscurity of his bulk—the warrior mare tensed, her ivory plume twitching behind her in anticipation, her breath held for a fraction of a second as she assessed the situation. She watched the Pegasus as a hellcat might watch the hawk that circled her kits, waiting to see if it considered striking her children, anticipating his dive and silently daring him into action. The restlessness in her blood propelled such thoughts to her brain; she half wished him to descend, to challenge her, so that she could unleash her furious ire against him in an attempt to soothe her fiery blood.

Most miraculously, the male did descend—and he angled himself so that he inclined near her as he fell from the sky. As a matter of absolute fact, he landed right in front of her, his stance full of the pride that bubbled in his chest. It was a large chest indeed; the stallion was a hefty sort, towering over the shadowmere even without the feathery mass of his wings invading the air around them. Circe eyed him with a suspicious glare; her ear cocked backwards, listening for the subtle rustle of her sons and any other sign of another unwanted intruder who might be interested in her kin. She detected none; it seemed today’s invasions were solely meant for her entertainment.

The shadowmere waited for him to speak—for him to bring reason to his sudden invasive actions. Her body refused to release its tension; her irises showed no fear. He was large, yes—but Circe knew how to handle large. It wasn’t until he called her beautiful that the shadowmere felt some sort of stirring of unease, for she was quite unprepared for it. Circe did not associate with the business of attractiveness – she was made of graver stuff than that—yet even so, she couldn’t help the sudden flare of flattery that rose in her breast. She lifted her head, chin set, even more suspicious of this man than she had been before; what reason did he have to call her beautiful? “I will let you guess,” she responded, “after you tell me why you’re here.” Where his voice had been warm and cordial, hers was nothing but dry flint, ready to pounce and strike the dry shrub and have it burst into flame—in short, she would be a challenge



@[Oliver]





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