Dreamer. She uses the word again – like a name – but Caneo stands waking before her. Confusion ripples through the back of his mind. He might ask further but she is soft, this mare. He wants to keep her soft – avoid provoking temper, wherever that may lie. Pale eyes skim over the shape of the wolf at her side, curious still – and wary. It wields teeth only a little sharper than its temper, Caneo thinks. He wonders if that makes the mare a liar, or just strangely matched. The silver boy prefers the second option; he inches just close enough to let her block a little wind, his shivering too obvious, his body unhappy in this cold.

        She doesn’t like it either.

        Something small and warm blooms in his chest – some little inkling of kinship, perhaps. In another universe somewhere, maybe the two of them are friends, dreamers, dreaming together. He could be soft like her if the desert had not withered him; he is nervous instead, standing tiptoe, his body never quite at rest. “Thank you,” he says when she compliments his name. The words are empty as the boy’s smile – learned by rote. So much of his brilliance is cold like the glass above – like the shine of ice. He knows no other way to be.

        But Caneo smiles when she takes his bait.

        His tail twitches. “Yes,” coyly. A moment later though one ear twists back and those pale eyes turn to Drom, who has suddenly awakened. “The lord visits places for mysterious reasons.” Those cold lights in the silver boy’s eyes twinkle brightly as he listens. He wonders then if she is like Tandavi, treating gods like family, like favorite uncles. “You know him?” Caneo asks, true curiosity sparking through his smooth voice. His gaze sweeps the mare more critically for a moment, but she walks unadorned, not like his friend – wearing no favors from any god. Caneo wonders if perhaps this Drom talks bigger than she is. He steps curiously toward her, a half pace, unhappy to leave his place near Essetia’s comfortable bulk. “Who is your family?” he wonders, ears cupping forward to catch the words. He does not understand why when she looks away, her eyes skimming the floor. He does not understand, but he lingers looking at her anyway, patient, expectant.

        Only one ear cocks back when Essetia speaks again, answering his earlier question. Caneo’s eyes roll back in her direction briefly. “They’re very pretty in the warm time,” he observes. “You should come back when the sun shines again.” A brief pause, and his pale eyes flicker toward the outside, the white world beyond the fluttering drapes. “I hope it does,” he adds a bit more softly, tail curling around one slender limb.